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Message-ID: <42127asstr$1051427403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Samarkand" <sam_arkand@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Sat, 26 Apr 2003 21:56:10 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Cycle
Date: Sun, 27 Apr 2003 03:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

      Hello.  I've been encouraged to post a few of my tales by Hammon Wry,
a friend I've met through another area of the Net.  My stories tend towards
abduction, non-consensuality, and other "fun things".  So ready be
warned...and *especially* be warned about this one.  It was a deliberate
attempt to play at the edges of a forum's rules about a certain subject.

     Here we go.

***
        I watch my daughter run for the school bus.  It isn't a long
distance--just to the corner of the block to the common pickup spot.  The
other children boarding the bus wave at her to hurry up.  I know she'll be
in safe hands once she gets on; the driver had an excellent safety record
when I checked his records.   I do that a lot.  I pestered the realtor for
our house for hours until I was sure this suburb didn't have any nasty
surprises.  Last year, I gathered over a thousand signatures on a petition
for a law requiring pedophiles to notify the police whenever they move.
And, though I'm standing on the front porch in my robe, I don't take my eyes
off my child until the bus rushes off to the next stop.  Bad things can
happen to children if you let your attention slacken for a second.

         I go back into the house to clean up the kitchen.  Make all the Mr.
Mom jokes you want, I like being a stay-at-home husband.  My wife and I
tried the two-working parents thing when Lori was born.  After a year, I
decided my marriage was worth more than a tie around my neck.  I moved my
technical-writing practice into the basement, and Megan took a full-time
position as a nurse at a nearby hospital.  The paychecks add up to a decent
middle-class life.  My father would have called me whipped for doing the
housework and the cooking.  But I don't mind as long as I can spend as much
time with Lori as I can.  The importance of family, at least, is the one
thing my dad and I agreed upon.

         Spooning some applesauce into a bowl, I garnish it with a healthy
sprinkling of cinnamon.  My daughter loves the stuff.  The spice also blends
in with the red 0.5 mg Xanax tablet I crush into a fine powder before adding
the drug in.  The bowl goes onto a tray with a rubber spoon and a sports
bottle filled with 2% milk.  I balance the tray in one hand while I descend
the basement stairs.  It needs cleaning up--Lori left her magazine spread
out the couch by the television--but I think I'll have her do it when she
returns from school.  Personal responsibility is another value I share with
my father, although he taught it in a very different way.

         The last third of the basement is the utility room, walled off by a
partition I added when we first moved in.  A bare concrete box, it contains
things like the washer-dryer and water heater.  At the far end of the room
is a pile of cardboard boxes full of old books and junk.  Lori's been in
here many times without giving the stack a second glance.  Setting the tray
atop the washer, I move the boxes out of the way so I can reach the heavy
metal door hidden behind them.  There used to be a regular wooden door to
the old cedar closet, but I replaced with this high-security one after I had
that fateful talk with Megan.  A key on my ring unlocks the deadbolt.  My
father's carpentry lessons came in handy while modifying the closet.  Thick
black neoprene foam covers the walls, floor, and the inside of the door.  I
can barely hear the hum of the ventilation fan.

          The Cunt lies curled up on the floor.  Her petite form, a little
under five feet tall, fits neatly within the confined space of her cell.
The heavy leather straightjacket imprisoning her upper body reveals every
lovely curve of her form; the sleeves of the garment force her crossed arms
to support her firm breasts.  Yet her features are in sharp contrast to the
maturity of her twenty-year old physique.  Graced by a dusting of freckles,
her childlike features are accentuated by a pert nose and sparkling black
eyes.  A mop of  light-brown curls projects the image of a mischievous girl.
I first saw her in a hotel room when in desperation I called that escort
agency.  She specialized in playing naughty schoolgirls.  I knew the instant
she walked through the door she would be my salvation.

            "Morning, Cunt."  I rumple her disheveled hair.  "I have
breakfast."

            "Please, let me go," she whimpers.  "I won't tell, I swear, dump
me by the road, please--"

            "Cunt, do you want me to use the razor strop?"  The only thing
I've kept of my father's belongings, I know well the pain the leather strap
can inflict.  "It's twenty strokes if you disobey."

             The Cunt quietly crawls of the closet on her knees.  Megan
severed the tendons in her ankles to prevent any escape attempts.  Crouching
down, I spoon feed the slave the first of two meals she has per day.  She
grimaces as she eats the drug-laden applesauce, but she consumes every last
drop.   Once, after she had refused to eat, we left her alone in the closet
bereft of her usual dose.  The agonies of withdrawal made her far more
compliant.  She drinks the milk in a few greedy swallows.   In a few
minutes, the Xanax takes effect.  Her eyes glaze as her face relaxes into an
emotionless mask.  She offers only token struggle when I unbuckle the
straightjacket from her sweaty body.  A relieved sigh accompanies the
loosening of the crotch strap bisecting her sex.  I ease a ribbed dildo,
glistening with her juices that had been nestled in her pussy all night.  I
hate tormenting her like that, but my wife insists it's reinforces the
Cunt's humiliation.  My wife also suggested our slave's name to further
debase her.  I wonder sometimes why they were ever called the "gentler sex".

 A shelf in the cedar closet is stocked with various restraints and toys.
It is high enough that the Cunt, with her ruined ankles, could never reach
it.   Crossing her hands behind her, I carefully zip a plastic cable tie
about her wrists.  I leave a tiny amount of slack to avoid cutting off the
blood supply to her fingers.  She mews sadly when I press a white ball gag
between her teeth.  I firmly tighten it at the nape of her neck under her
hair.  I also pocket a pair of soft leather cuffs linked by a short chain.
Her head lolls against my arm as I carry her upstairs to the second-floor
bathroom.  I balked when Megan proposed leading her on hands and knees with
a leash.  We've done enough to this poor woman without treating her like a
worthless animal.

 I allow the cunt to relieve herself while the tub fills with steamy water.
I add in some of Lori's bubble bath--the froth exudes a delicious lilac
scent I adore.   The Cunt moans in relief when I slip her into the tub.  The
warmth must feel soothing to her cramped muscles.  Taking a loofah, I bath
every inch of her skin.  She flushes when the sponge glides lovingly over
her ripe teats, softly tickling her pink nipples until they stiffen like
pencil erasers.  When I part her thighs, she instinctively resists the
invasion of her intimate regions.  I arch her out of the water with a hand
under her tight butt cheeks while I cleanse her sex.  We waxed and plucked
her mons bare of any hair during the three months she's been our possession.
Her labia pout like the petals of an exotic orchid when I stroke them with
soapy fingertips.

 I lather her shoulder-length hair with a tear-free shampoo I once used when
Lori was a babe.  She shivers when I massage her scalp free of dirt and
perspiration.   Draining the tub, I rinse Cunt off under the showerhead and
dry her with a fluffy towel.  I buff her flesh to a healthy glow before
seating her at the vanity mirror.  Megan was horrified when I tried washing
the Cunt's face with normal soap.  She may have helped me bind and gag a
struggling woman after grabbing her from a hotel parking lot, but ignorance
of proper skin maintenance was a fault she had no patience for.  Loosening
the gag strap, I wash the Cunt's face with a bar of moisturizing soap and a
damp rag.  I decide against any elaborate make-up aside from a whorish
crimson lipstick applied to her mouth.  The slutty hue looks good on lips
stretched wide by the white ball gag.

 The guest bedroom is furnished simply with a bed, nightable, and dresser.
If anyone asks, the soundproofing I've done lately is to spare our child any
embarrassment of hearing her parents' lovemaking.  I take a pair of blunt
safety scissors from the table drawer and snip off the cable tie.  Swiftly I
wrap a leather cuff about one of her wrists.  Under the sedative's thrall,
she can struggle only weakly when I stretch her out upon the bed.  A
seemingly decorative brass ring in the headboard acts as an anchor-point
when I thread the other cuff through the loop.  In a second she is secured
with her hands bound above her head.

 "Umppphh!" she grunts.

 "Is there something wrong?"  I release the gag.  Central nervous
depressants like Xanax can cause breathing problems.  I certainly don't want
her to choke!

 "Why are you doing this to me?" she sobs.

 "Because you're a whore."  Damn, I hate saying these things.  It's as
demeaning to me as it is to her.  "A fucktoy for our amusement."

 "Why me?"  Tears stream down her cheeks.  "What did I ever do to you to
deserve this?"

 "It's--"  Christ, I can't stand that pitiful look.  "It's not you.  I'm
doing this because of Lori."

 I go to a picture frame left facedown on the dresser. Retrieving it, I lift
it into her field of view.  Her eyes widen when she sees the faces in the
people in the photograph.  Two of them are all-too-familiar: the
ordinary-looking husband and wife who have turned her existence into a
living hell.  The last figure she has never seen. . .except when she has
looked into a mirror.  Lori smiles out of the family portrait at her
doppelganger.  Same features.  Same hair color.  Even, as puberty begins,
hints of the same body.  Recoiling, the Cunt regards me with the horror and
disgust I expect.  Yet there is also an odd sense of understanding in her
expression that surprises me.

 "Your daughter."  She gazes upon her almost-identical twin.  "I should have
known.  My tricks used to hire me so they could get their rocks off without
getting tagged as pedos."

 "I didn't want to be this way."  I shudder.  "I used to listen to my sister
crying while my father raped her at night.  I swore I wouldn't do that to
any of my children.  I even considered having a vasectomy, but Megan wanted
a child too much."

 "But the urge came on, didn't it?"

 "I tried therapy," I reply.  "Hypnosis, aversion, chemical castration.
Nothing stopped the compulsions towards Lori.  I finally confessed to Megan.
Offered a divorce without visitation rights to protect our daughter.  But
she had an alternate suggestion."

 "A stand-in."  The Cunt sniffles.  "Someone to fuck instead of your kid."

 "My wife is, um, a very determined woman."  I chuckle weakly.  "She pursued
nursing school despite her family's wishes.  She was disgusted by my
weakness, but she refused to subject Lori to the trauma of a broken home.
She was the one who came up with the idea of a substitute slave to. . .work
out my issues."

 "Shit."  The Cunt weeps.  "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

 "Never."  I hang my head.  "We couldn't even if we wanted to.  You'd
contact the cops, and Lori would have to live with the shame.  But you
aren't here because you were a convenient whore.  You're saving my daughter
from carrying my father's taint to another generation."

 The Cunt slumps listlessly on the bed when I climb on top of her supine
body.  The drugs and the loss of any hope of freedom seem to have finally
shattered her resistance.   Throwing her legs over my shoulders, I touch the
head of my cock to her slit.  The tests Megan administered were all
negative, and I went through with the vasectomy a week before the abduction.
The walls of her cunt clasp my manhood when I spear into her depths.  She
passively accepts my amorous kisses upon her lips while I settle into a slow
rhythm.

 Long ago I forswore the brutality and viciousness with which my father
disciplined his children.  Yet I cannot rid myself of the one trait he
bequeathed to me.  My perversion is a cycle that will continue through my
descendents unless I stop the disease's transmission.   I may be condemned
to Hell for this.  But at least my daughter and my son--Megan told me she
was pregnant when I confessed--will not bear the stain of my line's evil.
Each time I violate this poor woman grants me a day I can be near my
daughter without hurting her.  My gratitude for my slave knows no bounds.
She will have the best life I can offer her, I swear it.

 "Ahhhh," she sighs.  "Mister, cuh--could you do something for me?"

 "What is it?"

 "Call me your 'little Robin'," she sobs.  "That's what...what my dad said
while he--"

 "Hush, little Robin," I croon.  "Daddy's here.  Daddy's here."

END

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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