Wydawca: Darque Taboo Press Kategoria: Obyczajowe i romanse Język: angielski Rok wydania: 2016

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Opis ebooka Cindros Island: Volume One (BDSM Erotica) - Alicia Stranger

Table of Contents:CHAPTER ONE - The Jansen Reformatory for Women. 1CHAPTER TWO - Captive of Cindros. 17CHAPTER THREE - The Tiny Cage. 39CHAPTER FOUR – Captive. 51****Excerpt:I was a wild thing. Captured and caged and now on my way to the zoo. And from then on would observe my brief glimpses of Life through iron bars or wire mesh. At the moment it was wire mesh between me and the two male drivers of the vehicle taking me to prison. There were no handles on the door.For the hundredth I looked in disbelief I look at metal clad wrists held against a navel by a chain around my waist. I had been handcuffed many times since my original arrest, but the wincing cringe I felt each time as the ratchets clicked tight in their unholy message of impotentness was a vivid now as on that first time.I am Ava Noyes, twenty-six years of and sentenced to imprisonment for life. I am also innocent.I an not alone. My companion is a younger girl who weeps in a continual dry sobbing. From time to time she sobs out the how and the why of her story but I do not speak of mine. What would be the use, I am sentenced!

Opinie o ebooku Cindros Island: Volume One (BDSM Erotica) - Alicia Stranger

Fragment ebooka Cindros Island: Volume One (BDSM Erotica) - Alicia Stranger

Cindros Island: Volume One

Alicia Stranger

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Copyright © 2016 Alicia Stranger

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All Rights Reserved: No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher; with the exception of brief quotes used in connection with reviews written for inclusion in a magazine or newspaper.

Disclaimer: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic, adult language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable which might include: multiple sexual practices, heavy and strong BDSM themes and elements, erotic elements and fetish play. This e-book is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/Fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither the publisher nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles. All characters depicted are at  least eighteen years of age or older.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, businesses, and incidents are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual places, people, or events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE - The Jansen Reformatory for Women

CHAPTER TWO - Captive of Cindros

CHAPTER THREE - The Tiny Cage

CHAPTER FOUR – Captive

CHAPTER ONE - The Jansen Reformatory for Women

I was a wild thing. Captured and caged and now on my way to the zoo. And from then on would observe my brief glimpses of Life through iron bars or wire mesh. At the moment it was wire mesh between me and the two male drivers of the vehicle taking me to prison. There were no handles on the door.

For the hundredth I looked in disbelief I look at metal clad wrists held against a navel by a chain around my waist. I had been handcuffed many times since my original arrest, but the wincing cringe I felt each time as the ratchets clicked tight in their unholy message of impotentness was a vivid now as on that first time.

I am Ava Noyes, twenty-six years of and sentenced to imprisonment for life. I am also innocent.

I an not alone. My companion is a younger girl who weeps in a continual dry sobbing. From time to time she sobs out the how and the why of her story but I do not speak of mine. What would be the use, I am sentenced!

Our feet are chained with what our guards refer to as "leg irons." If it were . not so threatening and so final I could laugh at this imposition of almost medieval restraints upon a girl who either guard could handle easily no matter how she fought. I think it is part of our punishment and I expect those who impose our chains experience an erotic pleasure as they weld them upon our flesh.

Those first times in public were bitterly shaming to a girl who had known only luxury. My journeys from the car to the courtroom were flanked by my guards who steadied my pinioned arms when I stubbled on the steps because my feet were chained, and were the most humiliating of my life. Upon reaching the courtroom my hands and feet were released for the brief freedom in which my fate was sealed. The return to the car and jail cell were hobbled by the chains again.

My only interest now in this traveling cage is the distraught maiden who's slenderness seems far too feminine for her weight of chains. Surely a pair of handcuffs would have been enough for either of us. In tones of hopelessness, she voices her conviction she will die behind the stones and bars of prison, and I believe every word of it because I feel the same. From time to time both of us tug against our shackled wrists and kick against the scrubbing length of links between the steel bands locked upon our ankles. I consider screaming hysteria but our guards would ignore us. They make their living from this transport of chained girls to prison. They are probably bored with the whole thing and accustomed to female revolt against unkind fate.

The big sign says we are entering the Janssen State Reformatory for Women, and I wonder cynically why they bother to reform when they will never set us free. This place is a prison!

There is additional shame as we are invited to hop from our wheeled prison to the ground. Because the chain between our ankles is too short to allow an ordinary step. We hop to land awkwardly. We are invited to proceed inside by a guard who addresses us sardonically as "You ladies." We shuffle within the awful door to be greeted by the smell of disinfectant and the cheerful voice of a female guard who does not have to live here, "Welcome to Janssen."

After a barred door has clanged shut behind our backs we are relieved of metal bondage and that rises spirits a bit. But then comes the paperwork, the fingerprinting and the bath in a concrete enclosure under the watchful eye of a female guard. We are powdered with a disinfectant. Then there is a doctor who is mainly concerned with spreading apart our sex to peer inside. She pronounces us healthy and we move on.

My heart-broken companion now come to a parting of our ways, she through one door and I through another. I clutch the towel which is my only covering as I am led through corridors and down steps, finally coming to a cell and an iron door which is open and waiting. My arms are gabbed and my wrists handcuffed. I am thrust inside and hear the door clank shut behind me. The guard departs without a word. I stand in amazement with my towel over one arm and a pair of handcuffed wrists. There is something wrong!

There had been something wrong from the beginning, right from the abrupt and brutally shaming arrest, to the massive amount of irrefutable evidence against me, all of it false. But there is a power and authority enough to defeat my friends, family, and a team of expensive lawyers who probably could have secured my release had I been guilty, but who were as baffled as I by an unseen force determined to make me prisoner for life. Now, in this cell, the presence of evil was something I could almost feel. But apart from my imaginings, there was the fact that I was naked and handcuffed. Female prisoners are not kept naked and handcuffed in any prison I've ever heard of. Something was terribly wrong!

The wash bowl, the toilet and the cot were my sole furnishing. I sat on the cot and draped the towel across my lap. The cell had three stone walls with the forth wall made of the bars. Disgustedly I got up and shook the barred door as if to reassure myself of real imprisonment. When a girl's hands are cuffed in front they bother her little. I returned to my cot and the silly modest of the towel across my lap. Impatiently I threw it aside to sit in stark nakedness. Once again I longed to scream.

I was pretty sure I was the only inmate of this short passageway. There were three other cells but I had seen no one in them. I was isolated! From that realization I considered my handcuffed wrists, surely they meant something. But above all I had to consider my nakedness, the towel was too small to bother with. But nakedness did not go along with stone walls and iron bars for a girl sentenced to life imprisonment, at least not in any legal system I was aware of. And there was the false evidence by which I had been convicted. Nakedness meant SEX!

I waited for something to happen and became increasingly aware of myself with bare breasts and open sex. My hands kept dropping to my sex to cover that area. But there was also the temptation to use those fingers to find some relief and a few moments away from this place. I thrust the thought angrily aside to wonder bitterly how long it would be before a man appeared to claim my body. Surely that's what I was being kept naked for.

It seemed ages before the wardens showed up with an apple, a slice of brown bread, a tin cup half filled with black coffee. When I gazed at it in disgust, she cheerfully suggested, "You don't have to eat it, honey."

"Isn't there some sort of uniform or tunic I'm suppose to be wearing?" I asked indignantly.

"No tunic for you, sweetheart, the book says you stay the way you is."

"Imprisoned naked?" I exclaimed. "I've never heard of such a thing. You can't do it, you can't!"

"We can and we will, sweetheart. The book says you gotta be naked so that's the way you'll be. Don't worry, we'll keep you warm."

"And what about my handcuffs? It can't be legal to keep me handcuffed."

"If you don't like them the way they is, honey, I can allus put 'em behind your back."

"You wouldn't!"

"Try me."

I stood there, my breasts heaving, my courage wilting in the face of my jailer's cheerful insistence on the way things were. She now took me a step further into degradation.

"You're suppose to hang that towel neatly on that bar there. Having it lay around like that will cost you five."

"Five ... five what?"

"Licks with the quirt on your ass, honey. You want them now?"

For the first time I became aware of the ugly thing hanging from her belt. A braided handled and a couple of wicked looking thongs. She removed it from the belt to play with it now. Then she gave what was probably good advice, "Yo' bend over to touch your toes when you get them. Miss Noyes. Don't suppose you'll do that this time. That means I whip your legs or any other piece that's handy. Be a hell of a lot better if Yo' bend down."

"You have to be kidding!"

Her answer was a swift slash across my calves. I yelped and did a silly little dance during which I received another cut across my back. Instinctively I backed against the wall to cover my breasts as best I could with chained hands and stare stupidly as a third stroke bit my belly and number four burned the front of my thighs. With an inarticulate cry of despair I turned and bent down to touch my toes and get the fifth squarely across the place where I sit down. All frve had hurt like fury and continued to burn while I straightened up.

"I'll report this to the authorities." I affirmed, forgetting who and what I was. "What you've just done to me is outrageous."

"That's right, honey, you do that. You want I should take this stuff away or you gonna eat it?"

"I'll eat it. But at least tell me why I have to be handcuffed. Surely there's a reason."

"Because the book says so, honey, that's the reason. Shut up about it unless you want them behind your back. Believe me, that's real awkward for a gal."

The barred door clanged and my guard disappeared to leave me staring at the tray. It was about as unappetizing as it could get but I drank the coffee and nibbled at the rest until, to my surprise, it had all gone. Prudently I washed off the tray and pushed it back out into the passage through the bars I wanted no repeat of that treatment with the quirt. I looked at the towel now draped across the plastic bar provided, seeing it as a banner of surrender. Then I looked at the weals left on my skin by that quirt.

That was my first day in the Janssen Reformatory for Women. I cried a lot that night, feeling about as low as I had ever felt in my life, and fearful to sleep because of nightmare dreams. Day two was a repetition of day one, even to a second marking of my skin.

"You ready to bend down and touch Yo' toes, Miss Noyes?" the question was casual.

"But why? What have I done?"

"You ain't done nothing, Miss Noyes, you're a real charming young lady. But get them hands down and touch those toes right quick or you'll be in trouble."

"You mean I get whipped even if I haven't done anything'?"

"Thai's right. Get with it."

I got with it. When a girl is naked and handcuffed and locked in a cell, she has little choice in anything. I did consider running back and forth across the cell to make a hard target. But common sense told me that would be silly and probably just as painful. Instead I said meekly, "Please don't hit me too hard," before assuming the shameful pose.

The pain was pretty bad. I wanted to stay bent over like that for the whole five but I just couldn't. Alter the second stroke I was jerking up after each siroke. But I returned to the bent over position as soon as I had recovered from the instinctual reaction. By number five I was gasping and leaned against the wall to cover my face with my hands to hide the tears. By the time I recovered I was alone.

Thus it was day after day and night after night. In each twenty-four hours I renewed my acquaintance with the quirt. It was always five strokes which left my bottom increasingly marked up and my courage diminished. After a week I no longer protested but meekly bent over to accept the cruel lash on my bottom. When told to say thank for the gift of pain, I did so without demur. On the eighth day there was a change.

"You'll be getting a visit, honey," my jailer informed me after my whipping. "The Super wants a word with you and you'd best behave. She'll sit on the cot and you'll stand to answer her questions. Don't be sulky or you'll be sorry. You have to wear these."

Once more I felt things slipping away from beneath me. I gazed at the leg irons in disbelief. "Why do I have to have my feet chained? I can't possibly run away."

My warden snickered. "Let's say it's to stop you kicking the Super when she isn't looking. Anyway it's her orders so there's no use you making a fuss. Stand still."

I looked down at the chaining of my feet. My bottom was still scolded and my hands still joined. I had to wonder what other inflictions I would have to endure here.