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From: Quaana <boofboofboof@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} WHITEHALL {nc,mc}
Date: Tue, 27 May 2003 08:10:02 -0400
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Thanks!
	
	--------------


	Standard disclaimer: This is purely a work of fiction. 
	Any similarities to real people, living or dead, is purely 	
	coincidential. Bla bla.

	


			WHITEHALL

			Chapter 1




	It was surprisingly easy to kidnap her. From TV, you get the 	
	impression that you have be a SWAT team or something to get 	
	your hands on a girl. In reality, most women don't see it	
	coming. The last thing they expect is for a co-worker 
	to prick them with an anaestethia needle on their wayto their
car and stow them away in a broom cupboard until the coast is clear.
Sarah didn't see it coming, that's for sure.

	As I stood over my CD collection, I was overwhelmed with a 	
	sudden sense of power and responsibility. Whatever song I 	
	chose would have an indelible impact on this woman's future. I
dithered between a few choices, but finally settled on Billy Ray
Cyrus' "Achy Breaky Heart". It was upbeat, quick to annoy and, most
importantly, short. Three twenty-three. I loaded it in the CD player
and savoured the moment of silence before I pressed play.

	Soon after the music started blaring inside her box, Sarah 	
	woke up. I had exchanged the mild anaestethic in her right arm
with a guarana drop, a stimulant, so I knew 	
that the music would easily wake her. 

	"Hello?", she slurred. Slight pause. "Excuse me?". Her foot 	
	knocked on the wall of her box. Aw. How cute. She hadn't 	
	panicked yet, being clear and rational, acting as 
	if all this was a dreadful mistake. "Hello?". More panic in 	
	her voice now. She had probably realized that she was sealed
	inside a dark box. Frantic kicking at the sides of the box
now, followed by a scream. She'd noticed that her arms and head were
firmly held in place with metal rings in the walls, and that there
were intravenous needles coming out of each arm. I'd secured her head
firmly between the two loudspeakers, now screaming the second verse of
Billy Ray Cyrus' country classic.


		"..You can tell my arms go back to the farm,
		You can tell my feet to hit the floor,
		Or you can tell my lips to tell my fingertips,
		They won't be reaching out for you no more..."


	"Hello?! HEELP!!" Sarah screamed over the music. More kicking
on the walls. It gets tiresome to listen to. I danced around, singing
along to the chorus, double-checking that everything was in order. I
had a protein bag and a glucose water drip in her arms, enough 
to keep her body alive in the lack of other food and drink. Other than
that, the all-important guarana drip to avoid having her black out all
the time. This stuff will keep you awake, heart-pounding and lucid for
incredible lengths of time. 

	It all seemed in order. I stood around, listening to the
ending of the song and Sarah's kicks and screams. The second the song
was over, it started over again. Ah, the glory of the CD player's
"repeat" function. I turned off the light in my basement and locked
the music and her screams in behind sound-proofed doors. Quiet at
last. Even after just one and a half repeats, "Achy Breaky Heart" gets
on your nerves.

		"...Don't tell my heart, 
		my achy breaky heart, 
		I just don't think he'd understand..."

	
	People started worrying about Sarah's absence from work on
Thursday morning. It was a pretty big, dog-eat-dog company, and the
first couple of days a cubicle is empty just means that the rest of us
have a chance to get ahead. I would look across into her cubicle,
where she'd used to sit, filing down her nails while talking
forcefully into a phone headset. Always liked the look of her.
Feminine, yet strong. Now, there was just the walls of the cubicle to
look at, but that was OK. She had a lot of postcards hanging on the
wall that I could see, and I could spend most of the day squinting at
them, trying to make out where in the world they came from. She had
tons of little-kid drawings all over the walls, penned by her
three-year old niece, too. I knew her cubicle well.

	"Bill, you haven't seen Sarah around, have you?". 

	Chuck had sauntered into my cubicle un-noticed with an old,
stained coffee-mug resting on his pot belly. "Only she was supposed to
hand in a report yesterday, and the boss is trying to pin the blame on
ol' Chuck here!". He snorted and rolled his eyes.

	"Nah, haven't seen her. Guess she's just off sick", I said
absently and turned back to my computer screen. I wasn't asked again,
and on Friday people started stealing stationary from Sarah's cubicle.


		"...And if you tell my heart, 
		my achy breaky heart, 
		he might blow up and kill this man..."





	I went back down into the basement after 10 days. I figured
that by now, basic physiological mechanisms were beginning to kick in
for real, blocking the effects I had intended with this little
incarceration. I had been looking forward to this moment, I had to
confess. I'd calculated in my spreadsheet at work that "Achy Breaky
Heart" had been playing to Sarah, non-stop, unceasingly, for 234
hours, or about 4.150 times in a row. I could hear Billy Ray, singing
as happily as ever, as soon as I opened the basement door. 

	I walked across to the CD player and pressed the stop button.
Immediately, a long, hoarse, rasping scream burst from the box. Poor
Sarah had gotten accustomed to the music, and this deafening silence 
was even worse than that. I let her scream until she stopped. It took
a long time, but she needed the time to re-adjust to reality. Then I
opened the box.

	The first thing that hit me was the stench of vomit, shit,
piss and sweat, but I'd expected that. Once I got over that, I took a
good look at Sarah in the box. She was thinner, but not thin, paler,
but not pale. She was breathing heavily, squinting her eyes together
at the first light in ten days, her pretty white teeth bared in a
horrible grimace. She screamed again, hoarsely. A thick, white, 
viscuous drop of drool stretched from the side of her mouth,
un-noticed. I looked her up and down, and saw that she had completely
smashed both her feet and lower legs from kicking at the sides of 
the box. Her left foot was hanging off by a few tendons, all bones in
the joint shattered. A large black-brown patch of blood coated the
bottom of the box. Lucky she hadn't severed any major arteries 
in her self-destruction, or all this would have been wasted.

	But she was alive. I pulled out the needles in her arms and
released her. She couldn't walk, of course, so I threw her across my
shoulder and heaved her into my bathroom. She was gurgling, screaming,
rambling, singing the song she'd been forced to hear over four
thousand times. She had clearly lost her mind.


	I placed her gently in the bath tub and cut her soaked clothes
off her body with a razor, being careful not to hurt her. I washed her
entire body free from caked shit and sweat patches, shaved her pussy 
without her even noticing it, rubbed ointment on her bedsores, dried
her with a big, soft towel and lifted her into a chair in my kitchen,
where I prepared a large, protein and sugar-rich meal for her. 
She had to get her health back, after all, if not her mind. She ate
the steak dinner and the pancakes with a wolf-like ferocity, not
noticing that she was drooling, spilling down her naked breasts, or 
that I was masturbating right next to her face as she ate. I came on
her cheek and she didn't even react. 
She was mine; I had broken her.



	I didn't even have to tie her up in my house when I left for
work. Even though I had bandaged her feet as best I could, there was
no way she'd ever walk on them again. Anyway, she seemed to have no
interest in leaving the house, being content lying on the bed,
gurgling and speaking about strange and pointless 			
experiences of her past. Time dragged at work that day, even more than
a usual Friday. Nobody asked about Sarah anymore. The rumors about her
being transferred to another department were convincing enough to 
everybody. I couldn't believe my luck.


	I rushed home and couldn't resist yelling "Honey, I'm home!"
as I walked in the door. Sarah was looking better - clean and
healthier as she lay on her bed in the guest room. Her eyes were still
wild and insane, of course, but that was the point. "Hi, Sarah", I
said slowly and deliberately. "I'm Bill. Remember me?". Sarah made a
muffled sound and moved her head in an undeciphrable way. "I'm the one
who put you in the box. I did it because I wanted to own you. Do you
understand." A glimmering of understanding and anger flickered across
Sarah's face. She was taking it in, I could tell. Impressive, forceful
mind she has. Ten days of torture doesn't break it completely. "Now,
what I want you to do, Sarah, is suck my cock." I took down my pants
and moved my expectant penis up towards her face. She screamed and
moved a little bit away from me. She was furiously trying to string
words together, words about kidnapping, about rape, about the
police...

	I sighed and pressed play on my CD remote. "Achy Breaky Heart"
burst out of the guest room hi-fi.  Sarah reacted as if somebody had
poured acid in her face. She threw herself down, badly banging her 
head against the wall, squealing like a woman possessed, trying to
escape, trying to claw her ears off...I stopped the music. Tears were
running down her face, her breathing short and irregular. "I want you 
to suck it", I repeated. And she did. She slid my aching penis into
her mouth and sucked gently on it, running her tongue up and down its
shaft, playing hopscotch on the head... I quickly grew bored of the 
sensation of Sarah's gentle tongue and grabbed her by the sides of the
head. I brutally face-fucked her, ignoring her gagging noises and
squelching in her throat, until I finally blew my load deep into her
throat. When I pulled out my cock, I repeated to her "I own you. Your
name is no longer Sarah Whitehall. You have no name. You have no
identity. Everything you know is wrong. There is only one truth. 
I am the Master. You are the Slave. Do you understand?".

The Slave glanced quickly to the remote in my hand. "Yes", she
gurgled. I locked her in.




 

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