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Subject: {ASSM} Little Girl Lost part one (txt)
Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2000 01:10:11 -0400
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Hope somebody enjoys this. More to follow. Comments would be welcome.
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<1st attachment, "Lostgirl.txt" begin>
LITTLE GIRL LOST
by Baby Lover
copyright September MM
(Mf-infant/abduct/bondage/rape/anal/ws/scat/extreme violence/torture/snuff)
PROLOGUE
This story was inspired by another I read on usenet written by Todd Sayre.
I dedicate it to him. This is, if you like, my version of his story in that
it flows to fulfillment whereas his ends just after it began. In the
original, the little girl lost in the labarynthine corridors of a hospital
was taken to find her 'mommy' by a senior surgeon who takes the opportunity
to lasciviously molest the lovely infant in his private office before
handing it over to the reception desk. Here, she is taken to look for
'mummy' by the hospital's chief executive who, instead of taking the little
child to his office, spirits her away to his torture chamber. Instead of
handing her over to security when he's finished with the little body, he
performs the most extreme tortures and fulfills his darkest fantasies. The
original location was the US and the child was a Mexican bitch. In my
version, the cunt is English and the location is the south of France. No
disrespect is intended to Todd or his story. This version takes his to a
wilder conclusion, indulges my fantasies (hinted at in the original) and is,
in many respects, a different story altogether. WARNING: If you lust over
baby girls, like the idea of abducting and cruelly abusing their sweet
little bodies, if you believe that little girls are made for big men to use
as sex and torture toys, that they have a duty to obey the vilest whims of
their new owners, if you enjoy cruelty to tiny children, if you like
torturing pretty infant girls, love their screaming and thrill to the idea
of killing them for sexual pleasure, then read on. If you don't, stop now
and go read something else.
1. THE ABDUCTION
He is the Chef of a major hospital in Nice on the French Riviera and,
excepting unbreakable engagements, can come and go pretty much as he
pleases. His personal assistant and an officeful of staff can take care of
business. It's what they are for. He often patrols the corridors of the
hospital, to see what's going on, to maintain his acquaintance with the
staff and some of the more long term patients and the visiting specialists,
to rain down terror on people he believes are shirking their
responsibilities and, in general, to keep a weather eye on the huge
operation. However, he has another, darker reason. His desires are not
what you would call normal. His sexual urges are quite beyond the pail of
most people. He likes childen. And he likes them sexually. His passions
are utterly perverted, the filthier and the more violent the better. He
adores humiliation and cruelty. Ironically, for someone running an
institution in which people are often made well again, he gets his biggest
thrill from the idea of taking a perfectly healthy and pretty young girl or
boy (or a gorgeous young woman object) and completely destroying the poor
creature's body, mind and spirit. So he uses his patrols to look out for
victims around whom he can wind his bizarre fantasies. He has never yet
taken anyone from the hospital. That would be too dangerous. But he does
get to know the names and other details of attractive patients that catch
his eye, researches them even to the extent of building a file on them
including a copy of the hospital registration photograph. He capitalises
upon any opportunity to look at them in intimacy in the toilets and the
bathrooms, and has spent many pleasant hours at a spy hole watching pretty
women in the birthing room, thrilling to their screams and fantasizing about
torturing mother and baby during birth. Today, though, is a turning point
at which one fantasy, at least, becomes delicious and cruel reality.
He is on the third of eight floors in a long corridor running the entire 600
foot length of the huge building, intersected every 100 feet by another
corridor at right angles. There are two parallel corridors on either side.
The place is a maze. Even the Chef can get momentarily lost on a bad day.
He turns the corner into the corridor at right angles and hears childlike
sobbing coming from somewhere nearby. Late afternoon sunlight streams down
the corridor from the tall plate glass windows at the far end, making it
difficult to see clearly. He hurries along the corridor looking in all the
doorways leading off it on both sides and finds her standing in the open
doorway of an emergency exit stairwell. She is the cutest little blonde
angel he has ever seen and his heart begins to pound in his chest as his
mind suddenly reels with images of all the wonderful things he knows he is
going to do with the baby's succulent, smooth young fuckflesh. She appears
to be about 4 years old, 3 feet 5 inches tall, maybe 35 pounds. A lovely
elfin face with big bright blue eyes and little snub nose topped with a
thick mop of only slightly wavy blonde hair cut in a bob ending just below
the nape of her slender neck and shaped around her angelic infant face, with
a fringe falling to her eyebrows. She was dressed in a baby pink and grey
tracksuit, little Adidas pink and white trainers and pale pink ankle socks.
The child's cheeks were wet with her tears and she made little sobbing
noises as she looked up the man, her left hand clutching a little pink girly
backpack made of pvc with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it and, with the back
of her right hand, she wiped her nose where it had been running.
His cock, large even when flaccid, had become a huge raging fuckpole just
over a foot long and it stuck straight out against the material of his
underpants. Trying to ignore the immensity and sudden discomfort of his
giant weapon, he composed himself to find out what was wrong with the child.
He was the Chef, after all. "Comm'en tu t'appel, ma petite?" he asked.
She sniffled, sobbed again, and replied "W..what?" "Aaah! You are English,
then, little girl." Having studied at LSE, his English was, if not perfect,
very passable and spoken without a heavy accent. "Yes," she sobbed. "What
is your name, little pretty one?" "Zoe." The little girl began to sob
again and he leant forward to put his arm around the child's tiny heaving
shoulders, at the same time nudging her out of the doorway onto the landing
of the emergency stairwell so the door could swing shut behind them to
obscure the view from the corridor.
"What is the matter, Zoe? Why are you crying?" "I'm lost. I've l...lost
m.my m..m..ummyeeeeee" she began to wail. Desperately wanting the bitch not
to make the sort of noise that would bring attention, he crouched down in
front of the beautiful creature who, in his twisted mind, had already been
consigned to a fate far worse than being lost. He took the opportunity to
let the hand resting on her shoulder glide smoothly down her body to rest on
her baby hip so that his fingers could spread out and downwards over her
pert little bumcheek. "Don't cry, Zoe, my little sweetie. Let's go down
these stairs and we'll find your mummy. Where was she last, do you think,
baby?" The toddler stopped wailing and, instead, resumed her sobbing.
Through her sobs she managed to convey that she didn't know where mummy was
or how long she'd been lost or even why mummy was at the hospital.
He realised it was imperative to get this wonderful piece of cunt out of the
building as quickly as possible, into his car and out of the area without
being seen. It was possible the alarm had already been raised by the
child's frantic mother and that security were already looking for little
Zoe. Fortune was with the Chef today. At the foot of the stairwell was a
basement storage cupboard used for keeping old records and, so that he could
use it as a repository for his 'secret files' and his stunning collection of
child pornography on which he'd spent an absolute fortune over the years,
the only key was in his possession. He whisked the now trusting small girl,
holding his hand, down the stairs to the basement level. Breathing a sigh
of relief they had encountered no one on the stairs or the landings, he
pulled the keys from his pocket and fumbled to get the right one into the
lock.
"We'll use the telephone in my office to call someone who will go and find
your mummy and bring her here," he cooed at the pacified girl. Turning on
the light in the small room, he gently pushed Zoe into a space crammed with
metal shelving from floor to ceiling, stuffed with yellowing files and
documents. Silently closing the door behind him he prayed that the light
would not show through the doorframe. He told the child to sit in the chair
by his desk opposite the door. "I'll just call reception to go and look for
your mummy. What's her name, little pretty one?" "Tina" the child said in
her adorable little girl voice. His throat caught with desire, his heart
was thumping, his head light with the enormity of what he was going to do to
the child, his penis was still hard and throbbing, feeling as big as a
telephone pole, and his big balls ached. With great effort, he stopped his
hand from shaking as he picked up the telephone receiver and pretended to
punch out a number. "'Allo!" he said and then spat a few curt words
including the names of the mother and the child. It was all very
convincing, at least to a 4 year old who didn't understand the language
anyway. He needed a few moments to think up a workable plan.
As it was late August, he felt sure the child was with her mother and,
maybe, family on holiday. If she lived in France as etranger, she would
speak French since little children her age would already have started school
at least a year ago. Therefore, he reasoned, the bitch mother would be at
something of a loss in dealing with security and the police or the gendarmes
and, in any case, they would be more interested if the missing child were a
French national. He knew he might have a good chance of geeting away with
abducting the baby if he could act fast. Thankfully, the executive car park
was adjacent to the stairwell on this level and he would have only to move
Zoe about 20 feet in total but how to prevent her being seen or struggling
and perhaps even getting away from him. Surely she would know something was
wrong when he tried to make her get in his car. 'Mercie Dieu' he thought,
clapping his hand to his forehead in exclamation, on realising there was a
box of old medicines on a shelf in this room. He'd been meaning to dispose
of it and thanked god it was still there.
Zoe sat on the chair swinging her little legs with her feet about 9 inches
above the floor and she had one thumb in her mouth. With the other hand,
she swung her pink pvc backpack beside the chair. She seemed alright for
the moment, he thought, but it would be best to sedate the kid before moving
her to his car. He yanked the box down onto his desk and started to rummage
through its contents, praying he'd find something useful. "What are you
doing?" asked the babycunt. "Looking for something I think you might like,
little lovebaby." He was getting bold now and wanted to talk dirty to his
tiny prisoner. "What is it?" she responded noisily withdrawing her wet
thumb from her gorgeous pouting little mouth. "Wait and see" he snapped,
becoming annoyed with the little slut and immediately regretting it. 'Time
enough for being nasty to it later' he thought. Suppressing a sob, Zoe
immediately shoved her thumb back in her mouth. "When's mummy coming?" she
said through the obstacle of her infant thumb. "I'm sure they've found her,
baby" he said in a rather more reassuring tone.
And then he found it. A bottle of chloroform, half full, and more than
enough to put the child to sleep for as long as he needed. Stepping away
from the desk with the bottle in one hand, he pulled his handkerchief from
his pocket and struggled hard to free the metal cap of the bottle. It was
stuck on with years of unuse but came loose with a hard twist. Without
hesitation he tipped the bottle up into his handkerchief and soaked it in
chloroform. The child was turning in the chair to see what he was doing so
he moved to stay behind her. Putting the open bottle on a shelf out of
harm's way and dropping the metal cap on the floor, he reached around with
the sopping wet handkerchief from behind the little fuckchild and slapped it
into her pretty face. She struggled, flailing her arms around and kicking
out with her legs at the desk, but his hand was almost as big as her baby
face and his wrists were strong. The noise she was making by kicking the
desk worried him and he pulled on her shoulder with his free hand to move
the rolling chair back from the desk. He needn't have been concerned
because, at that moment, Zoe went limp.
With the little girl slumped in the chair, he tidied the box away, put the
lid back on the bottle and, picking up the pvc bag she'd dropped on the
floor, placed it inside. Then he put the tiny pink backpack over Zoe's
shoulders. He smirked at the thought the tiny bitch would be carrying the
very stuff he'd be using to keep her quiet during the journey ahead. A
quick examination of the drawers in the old and battered desk produced a
dirty rag much bigger then his handkerchief and which would make it easier
to keep the child unconscious. He stuffed both into his jacket pocket, then
went to the door and, turning off the light, opened it a fraction to see if
anyone was on the stairs or the landing. He could see nor hear anyone, so
he eased out of the door, closing it gently behind him, and then opened the
door immediately to his left into the underground car park. It was
satisfyingly deserted. He went across to his car and unlocked the doors.
From the trunk, he took a big blanket which had always been there just in
case of something like this. Closing the trunk as quietly as he could
manage, he turned and retraced his steps to the storeroom and his cute
little victim.
With a huge sigh of relief, he turned the ignition, backed out of his
parking space and nosed the big Merc towards the exit ramp. He heaved a big
sigh of relief that he'd managed to get the girl, now just a heavy lump, out
of the office, locked the door, dragged her across to his car and humped it
into the footwell of the front passenger seat, covered her over with the
blanket, got in the driving seat and locked the doors, all without being
seen by anyone, so far as he could tell. He knew he must act fast but with
stealth so as not to arouse suspicion. Checking out of the parking lot with
a false security card he'd had for years for just this purpose, he drove up
the ramp to street level and out into the busy traffic flow. As it was
coming up to the short but noisy and jam packed local rush hour, he was glad
to have good knowledge of the back streets in this part of the city and was
therefore able to weave his way out into the mountains north of Nice
relatively speedily. The drive to his secluded farm would take about
another 20 minutes if there were no obstructions. The temptation was strong
to put his foot to the floor and let the powerful Merc eat up the mountain
roads but he resisted it, not so much because it was suicidally dangerous on
these treacherous roads, but because he couldn't risk being stopped by the
gendarmes for speeding.
His plan ran, for the moment, no further than getting his new property to
the carefully concealed torture chamber underneath an outbuilding on the
farm, chaining it up and gagging it just in case, and then getting straight
back to the hospital. He had an inkling of a notion it might be a good idea
to be in the hospital if the police or the gendarmes showed up because of
the panic-stricken mother.
Zoe stirred underneath the blanket and he pulled over into a passing bay at
the side of the winding mountain road. Reaching over the child, he
disengaged the pvc bag from her shoulders and got out the chloroform. He
soaked the filthy rag with it and pulled the blanket back from her little
blonde head just as her eyes flickered open. She opened her mouth to
scream, her eyes were filled with terror, but before a sound could reach her
throat, he slapped the big rag right over the infant's face and held it down
firmly. She went limp again.
At the farm, he was no less cautious than he had been getting the child out
of the hospital. In the floor of his garage is a trapdoor which leads to a
tunnel under the courtyard to the basement of what was once a barn. He
tugged and humped and manhandled the unconscious baby down the steps and
along the 50 foot tunnel to his 'playroom'. In the torture chamber, he
manacled the little girl's wrists above her head and tightened the chains to
which they were attached so that her feet dangled about 6 inches above the
stone floor. He needed to gag her and, to avoid any chance she might choke
or swallow her tongue, he used a plastic ballgag which fastened around her
neck with a tight elastic band. The ball, through which the elastic was
threaded, sat on her tongue and held it firmly in place.
Hanging the child up like that had separated her tracksuit and bared her
lovely paleskinned midriff. For the first time, he could see her flat tummy
and her little indented bellybutton. Suddenly overcome with lust for this
tiny girlchild, he momentarily forgot all about going back to the hospital.
Realising that he must, he decided to compromise and have a quick look at
her body before driving back. He pulled her tracksuit bottom down to her
knees, exposing her little cotton baby pants. They were white with tiny
pink teddybears dotted around the material. He eased both hands into the
waistband on either side of her luscious little body and pulled them down
her legs, baring the beautiful pert mound of her babycunt. With two
fingers, he parted her cunt lips to look at the soft pink flesh of her tiny
vagina, then parted her legs with both hands to get a glimpse of the curve
of her buttocks where they met the tops of her legs. He felt almost faint
with desire to ravish and abuse the girl but realised he would have to wait
until later. He must get back to the hospital. The ache in his balls would
have to wait.
He left her hanging there like that with her knicknicks and her tracksuit
bottom around her knees, triple locked the chamber doors and the trapdoor in
the garage, then drove back to the hospital. Arriving in his real office,
he found most of his staff had gone and his personal assistant was just
getting ready to leave. "Everything alright, Nicole?" he asked as casually
as he could manage. Nothing seemed to be amiss but she did say that an
'Anglaise' had been complaining she'd lost her daughter in the waiting area
of casualty. No one seemed to know anything about it and no one had seen
the child. The woman was last seen going off to the police station.
He told Nicole that he was going to stay late and catch up on messages and
paperwork as he'd been wandering around the hospital a bit too much today
and "Oh, I probably will take tomorrow off as I don't feel all that well. A
touch of flu, perhaps." He stayed in the office for about two hours, doing
nothing but drool over the child in his torture chamber and the myriad
thoughts tumbling through his increasingly demented mind about what he
wanted to do to her. Finally, he could wait no longer and almost ran to his
car and drove out of the parking lot this time with his real security card.
2. THE RAPE (unfinished)
Little Zoe snapped awake, opened her eyes and saw.... nothing. It was dark
and cold. And her arms and chest and back hurt and her wrists were
painfully sore. And she realised she was hanging by her wrists and they
were tied together and her feet weren't touching the floor and her knickers
and trousers were down around her knees and her bottom and her 'thingy' were
bare and cold and she burst into tears. The infant remembered how the nice
man had suddenly become a really horrid man and... and then.... she couldn't
remember any more. She was very frightened and asked god to bring mummy.
Over the next few minutes, as she sobbed and whimpered and occasionally
howled her cute little eyes out, she became accustomed to the darkness and
was able to make out a few things. A little light from in the access tunnel
outside the steel door to the chamber was coming in through slight gaps in
the doorframe. It was vaguely illuminating things which made little sense
to the 4 year old. She could make out a big bed to her right, the opposite
direction from the door, and she could just see lots of strange things
hanging on the wall across the room from her but she had no idea what they
might be.
What the captive child was seeing, although she could not possibly
understand, was her new owner's huge collection of whips, canes, leather
straps, dildos and body plugs, and an incredible array of torture
instruments. Had the baby girl been able to see better, she would have made
out the dark form of a long wooden workbench littered with kitchen utensils
and work tools. These are also considered by the Chef to be part of his
torture 'armoury'. And the pride of the collection was hiding in a black
box under the workbench - secretly acquired over many years from the
hospital - a complete set of surgical instruments intended for the most
exquisitely excruciating torture her new owner could think of. Also hiding
in the dark was a brazier, a set of branding irons, a metal stake bolted to
the concrete floor, a wooden frame for all-round beatings and for suspending
the hanging noose, a Black & Decker 'Workmate', and chains hanging from the
ceiling with a variety of hooks and manacles suspended at their ends.
Buried into the ceiling were several powerful spotlights and three video
cameras on rotating heads, capable of viewing every part of the 40 feet long
by 30 feet wide by 20 feet deep chamber.
To follow: the remainder of Part Two The Rape, Part Three The Torture & Part
Four The End
<1st attachment end>
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