Wydawca: Taboo Pulp Press Kategoria: Obyczajowe i romanse Język: angielski Rok wydania: 2017

This Is My Story: Extreme Taboo BDSM Erotica ebook

Missy Harper  

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Opis ebooka This Is My Story: Extreme Taboo BDSM Erotica - Missy Harper

Table of Contents:CHAPTER ONE - SPREAD-EAGLE    1CHAPTER TWO - THE POLE    15CHAPTER THREE - THE WHEEL    29CHAPTER FOUR - LOVE STRIPES    45CHAPTER FIVE - RUSTIC RESTRAINT    61CHAPTER SIX - ROPED RAGE    85CHAPTER SEVEN - CRYSTAL CRUELTY    114CHAPTER EIGHT - THE UNKIND GIRL    142CHAPTER NINE - THE MASTER'S TOUCH    160CHAPTER TEN - LOVE ME ALWAYS    178*******This book is hot. A trashy, sleazy, *full-length* (100+ Pages) post-censorship erotic novel. But, if you really want, here's the briefest of excerpts:******************"I'm sorry! I know I should haven't said that, but you say the most... oh, shit!" Then she plaintively said, "Please don't punish me this time. Give me a break.""You call me a son of a bitch and then expect clemency?""Well... could we try mercy?""Ask yourself, Tracy: do you deserve it?"He was playing with her. But it was a game she too must play, and by his rules. Angrily, she retorted, "Oh, all right, whip me!""Sorry, never on request." Tracy knew he was enjoying every word. "Let's have rape number two instead, shall we?"Never had she been so utterly at the disposal of a man. It was infuriating and, as yet, she had no idea where it would eventually lead. Her best hope was for him to have his pleasure and tire of her flesh, then let her go. But what then? It could be a day or a year from now. Meanwhile, she would do as he pleased. In silence, she watched her master strip.It should have been anticlimactic, but it was not. It should have revolted her, but it did not. The only shame she knew was with her own actions in twisting hurtfully against tied wrists and ankles, not in search of freedom but to add ecstasy. For a long time, Miss Tracy Trevor dwelled in a land of exquisite pain, without wish for surcease or thought of anything except the phallus possessing her loins. From a distant past, Effie's exultant voice proclaimed, "I told you there had to be something! I told you!"She was not untied. It was a time when a man and a woman have no need of words. Marsh returned to his clothes and his desk. Tracy was content to close her eyes and dream. Her outrageous exposure now seemed normal. She was uncertain if she still ached or if the ropes hurt. She lay in a delicious limbo, a cheek against a bare bound arm. She no longer had to bother with decision. The loss of it felt good.Mr. Matthew Marsh raped Miss Tracy Trevor several more times before darkness claimed the tent. He slept the night away beside her on the ground, using her bare arm or bare breast as a pillow. It all became delightfully natural.Miss Tracy Trevor was not untied. Mr. Matthew Marsh quipped that bound was beautiful.She did not argue. 

Opinie o ebooku This Is My Story: Extreme Taboo BDSM Erotica - Missy Harper

Fragment ebooka This Is My Story: Extreme Taboo BDSM Erotica - Missy Harper

This Is My Story

Missy Harper

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE - SPREAD-EAGLE

CHAPTER TWO - THE POLE

CHAPTER THREE - THE WHEEL

CHAPTER FOUR - LOVE STRIPES

CHAPTER FIVE - RUSTIC RESTRAINT

CHAPTER SIX - ROPED RAGE

CHAPTER SEVEN - CRYSTAL CRUELTY

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE UNKIND GIRL

CHAPTER NINE - THE MASTER'S TOUCH

CHAPTER TEN - LOVE ME ALWAYS

CHAPTER ONE - SPREAD-EAGLE

It was hot inside the big tent. The girl standing before the desk was conscious of her flimsy shirt adhering to damp skin. But she was far more aware of an intermittent scrutiny from the main the chair who was thumbing through the contents of her wallet. He sat back now to bestow his full attention.

"You silly twit, you could have got yourself killed."

"That's my affair. I knew there were risks." Tracy's breasts thrust against the clinging cloth in their own admission of apprehension. "Your man had no call to arrest me. or tie my hands behind my back, or to bring me here. My papers--"

"Yes, they're in order." The captain flicked the wallet with a contemptuous finger. "You're the bane of every mercenary, a freelance journalist who should have stayed home. Your hands were untied immediately after you entered this tent. You've got no beef. "

"Then may I have my papers and leave?"

"No."

They stared, each aware of hostilities to come. "Very well then." The girl's tone was stiff. "If I can't leave, may I sit down?"

"No. I prefer you standing. You're under interrogation."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Tracy's patience was strained. "Cops and robbers! Cloak and dagger! The whole lot of you behave like children. Give me my wallet and I won't bother you. I know where I left my jeep."

"It's not there now; it's been confiscated."

"Who on earth by?"

"Me."

His bland assurance loosed the torrent of Tracy's fury, but it was quickly halted by a soldier placing a slip upon the desk. Reading it, the captain exclaimed a hearty "Damn!" and got to his feet. "Look, Miss Trevor, I'm sorry. I'll be gone a few minutes. I'd best make you comfortable." He opened a drawer.

Tracey Trevor viewed the handcuffs in fascinated distaste. She placed her hands behind her back in a motion of defense and, with vehemence, suggested several reasons why they should be put back in the drawer. The was never quite sure how it happened, but a minute later her back was against the center pole, her arms drawn back and the steel circlets tight around her wrists. Her protests were useless. She was alone.

For the second time in a single hour Tracy's hands were in limbo. The soldier binding them with a cord out there among the trees had been a potent experience, vivid with a helplessness she had never before known. This was worse: handcuffs! She made experimental struggles and dragged a hand within view to observe the tight band of shining steel upon her wrists. She heaved a sigh of frustration. She and the pole were one. She was obliged to stand and await the return of the man who had fastened her with such outrageous ease. Surely she could have fought! But everything was so sudden.

Tracey spent a little time assuring herself of helplessness. If she could leave the tent, she would be gone in a flash, but she was firmly prisoner to the pole and the bite of the steel. She stopped struggling and turned her thoughts to the captain. She could not place his origin. Mercenaries came from everywhere to Santos. Wryly, she supposed herself a mercenary too. She was looking a for scoop in the flesh and blood of others by which to make her fortune. Journalists were never killed in Santos, and they did not disappear, but most were men! She was suddenly aware of buttons missing from her shirt, the blatant V between her breasts a seductiveness she could have done without. She tried to lift a hand, but that was hopeless.

She could have got some sort of a check for a story on this raid. She had been closer to bullets than ever before. She could have imparted the sound and sense of them through her typewriter. If he would let her loose, she still could. But why was she a prisoner at all? She could not be mistaken for a spy; that was too absurd. Or was it? She shuddered away a vision of a wall and a firing squad, with herself bound to a post. What a story! But it would not be she who wrote it.

Tracy could not deny her fear. She had coped right up to the handcuffs and missing buttons, but she was now vulnerable in a manner she had never before known, and the captain had something in store for her. Why else had he made her captive to the pole of his tent? Why?

"Still there, eh? And made as a wet hen." The subject of her thoughts was back and laughing at her chagrin. "By the way, my name is Matthew. You can call me Matt, or Mr. Matthew Marsh, if you feel formal. I'm a paid mercenary. I'm English. This is my • fifth war."

He was undeniably attractive. She would had supposed him American, but such men got around. Sure enough, her was admiring the too low V of her cleavage, which she could not hide. She fought the quiver in her voice. "Thanks, I'll include the statistics in my story. Please unfasten me."

Marsh laughed at her stiff informality. "Sweetheart, you know damn well I'm not going to turn you loose. Stop kidding yourself."

Tracy knew. She had known from the beginning. Twist her wrists within the metal, she demanded with stark realism, "Very well. What will you do with me?"

"Keep you around as a pet."

"You must be kidding."

Matthew shrugged. "Tell me why."

Tracy was about to tell him why, but she realized she had no words. The captain had her for sure. He could keep her. Furious, she demanded, "A pet! What do you mean by a pet?"

"You'll be handy to screw, and we can have some decent conversation. The local ladies aren't all that articulate, except over the price of a chicken or a dozen eggs."

"But you can't keep me prisoner for such a purpose! You simply can't!"

"Why not?"

"Don't keep me asking me why not! It's just unthinkable!"

"Then think about it."

, "I am thinking about it. Haven't you a scrap of decency or chivalry? Keeping me chained to this pole while you ogle me and make impossible suggestions? And don't ask me why they're impossible--they just are! I'm sure this situation must be covered by the Geneva Convention."

"Drop them a line sometime."

"Oh, you--you... ! Let me loose!"

"You may as well get used to the handcuffs. You'll be wearing them a lot. Handy little gadgets for girls."

"They're not for girls at all. They're for criminals!"

"This Santos war is a lot of isolated pockets. I'm in charge of one of them. The commander is a little tin god. That's why I took the job. You may as well be nice to me."

"Nice! If that means what I think, forget it!"

"You Janes get yourselves into these jackpots. You're not the first, you know. Then, when a guy grabs you, you howl blue murder." Matthew grinned. "Know what I think? I think you've all got a rape fantasy."

"That's a rotten lie! I don't want to be raped. Unlock my hands."

"You're getting a big charge out of me looking at your tits, the way they're half showing."

"That's your fault. You tore--"

"Sure, sure. In fact, just to be English, indubitably. It's always the man's fault when a girl gets what she wants."

"Girls aren't like that at all! You don't know a thing about girls. Look, if you want to talk psychology, please free my hands." The captain came close and gather's Tracy's hair into a single fist, shaking her had in stern admonition. "Shut up about your hands. You'll be chained or tied all the time, so just lay off. Nothing more about letting you loose. Understand?"

"You're hurting my hair!"

"I'm breaking you in easy, you silly little twit. Come down to earth, why don't you?"

For answer, Tracy turned and bit her captor's arm. She bit hard. When he back away, cursing and clutching the wound, she lashed out with a kick of her heel.

What happened then was beyond all Tracy's previous comprehension. The male palm impacted her cheek to knock her sideways. She would have fallen had it not been for her fastened hands. Without pause, she was slapped in the opposite direction. Ears ringing, cheeks smarting, hands tugging frantically at relentless steel, she stared wide-eyed in speechless dismay. The words she finally uttered were heavy with outrage. "I'm a girl--a helpless girl--and you struck me!"

Marsh held up a forearm on which there were her own teeth marks and slowly welling blood. He said no word, simply let her stare at what she had done. Shame-faced, she mutter, "I--I'm sorry. I was frightened. You hit me; nobody's ever hit me."

Matthew Marsh shook his wound in her face. "First time I've been bitten. Let's say we're even."

He returned to his desk and busied himself with papers. Tracy stood against the pole in the deepest shame of her life. She needed to save things, but the words were not there. Overriding all else was the knowledge of waiting to be raped. The captain was busy at the moment and could not spare the time. He would rape her when he got around to it. She watched him covertly. He was what men would call a good-looking bastard, there was also about him the unmistakable stamp of competence. The girl sensed his competence would extend to his taking of her body.

If he actually took her by force! Tracy could not yet believe he would. There was about him a quality of the fastidious which would scorn the messiness of forced entry. But he had struck her! He had hit her hard. But he was also a mercenary, and mercenaries were not noted for compassion.

Sometimes Marsh looked up from his work and smiled, but it was a preoccupied smile. His thoughts were elsewhere. His disinterest fueled her fury. If he desired her, he might at least show some sign. This casual handcuffing of her hands behind the pole to make her await his mood was an insult: the final and ultimate assertion of male omnipotence. Grimly, the helpless girl determined that when the awful moment came she would fight him tooth and nail. For the better part of an hour Tracy nursed her grievances. "Feel less like mayhem, sweetheart?"

So he deigned to notice her! How bit-hearted could he get! Sticking to her guns, the handcuffed girl uttered an emphatic "No!"

"Ah, well!" His tone clearly said it did not matter how she felt about anything; she was only a captive girl, part of the spoils of war and the perquisite of the senior officer. "Tracy, I'm going to free you. I want you to remove all clothing. I want you stark naked.

She did not answer. She was the classic little girl refusing to play. But Tracy's heart was thudding painfully and her breasts heaving as she felt the freeing of her hands. When it was done, she stood away from the pole, massaging chafed wrists, tense and alert but making no effort to obey the orders of the man.

"Get with it, girl. Off with those clothes."

"I'm sorry, but I have to refuse. I know you'll hurt me, but what you ask is not possible, not for me."

"Horseshit! Strip!"

"Captain Marsh, you're wasting your time. You don't need me; you need a whore. I'm sure the closest town would prove--"

"When you're naked, you will dispose yourself within those four stakes." The male directive came as though she had not spoken.

"I'm sure you divine their purpose."

The stakes would hold her spread-eagled for the act. Within the clutter of the tent, Tracy had not heeded them, but she did so now. Obeying instinct, she leaped for the door. Before she touched it, she was grasped and thrown to the ground. The voice of Matthew Marsh was exasperatingly patient. "I'm giving you a chance to do things, yourself. Be sensible."

"Damn you!" Tracy sprang erect and faced her enemy. "You think sweet reason will prevail with the silly little twit! I know what you're thinking. Well, it won't work! I'm not going to meekly let myself be raped."

"Damn it, girl, I can defeat you with a single blow."

"If you want me bloodied and bruised, that's your affair, but I'm not going to be your complacent whore."

"Whores get paid, sweetheart. This one's a freebie. " Matt smiled placatingly. "Strip and get yourself down there. I'm doing this to salve your conscience. If you're tightly tied, you won't feel an ounce of guilt." He cocked an eyebrow and looked at her quizzically. "Or will you?"

"I refuse to lay on my back and be violated. And as for being naked... " Tracy Trevor glared defiantly.

He did not strike a blow. He did not have to. His hands were frighteningly strong. As she was stripped and bound, Tracy had a vision of the ages. Nature wanted children. Nature had made the male strong to cope with female intransigence. The female was proportionately weak as befitted the recipient of the sperm. Everything appeared in good order. She and Matthew Marsh had simply gone back a million years.

In quiet satisfaction, the man looked down at the woman as he slowly removed his clothes. The woman glared back, shifting against the cords holding her at wrist and ankle, widespread in the most blatant exposure a woman can know. Marsh's scrutiny was critical and specific. "You've got a good body, Tracy. Everything's about right."

"Conqueror!" She scoffed. "Enjoy me."

"Oh, I will! There's a pillow around here somewhere... " Tracy could not control the blush as the man who had bound her to the four stakes carefully arranged a pillow beneath her bare hips. He was very male and very muscular and far too close. If the skin beneath her pubic bush could blush too, it would be a fine shade of pink.

"I'm going to gloat for a few minutes in the best traditions of villainy," Marsh said evenly. "You're a delectable dish the way I have you fixed. Give you a chance to tell that fantasy of yours; this is it."

"I don't have such a fantasy."

"Then tell about yourself. It's the chance of a lifetime."

They both knew she had lied. This was indeed the fantasy Tracy had carried in the back of her mind for years. The stripping, the spreading, the binding--it all ran true to form. She had fought well enough in their struggle to make the tying of her first wrist elusive. But once it was snared, the rest followed so easily Matthew took his time, as though the binding of each female limb was a sacred rite. He even tied number one over again the interest of neatness and conformity. This was indeed it! Tracy's open sex, elevated by the pillow, was there for the male to ogle and play with as he played with it now, sending her into quivers and spasms of response beyond control. "You're gong to be very useful to me," Marsh said thoughtfully. "I've got ideas for the two of us. The fucking's a bonus. " The male's casualness and the female's helplessness robbed the act about to be performed of urgency. Tracy's explorations into the sexual coupling had been numerous, but left her with diminished interest. When asked, she would freely admit to a maidenhead long since lost. But now, staked out naked on the ground under the big tent, she asked herself what rape really was. A male, presumably hostile, had rendered her impotent. Decision had been taken from her. Soon they would copulate with a degree of success yet to be determined. The most truly shocking thing about rape appeared to be that had she met this man socially, she might easily have found herself in precisely this same posture but without the stakes and the ropes. There had to be something wrong with her reasoning somewhere, but Tracy could not pinpoint the fault. Her girlfriend, Effie, would have coarsely exclaimed, "Why, darling, you're only going to be fucked!"

"These stakes were here already. They weren't just for me," Tracy accused, seeking to make points. "Do you do this often?"

"A perquisite of office," Marsh admitted. "But only with girls on the enemy side. We make it legal by the supposition they have useful information."

"That's beastly!"

"No different than you. Miss Tracy Trevor." Marsh laughed at memories. "Being tied down the way you are really cheeses 'em off. But I've noticed after they've been taken by the fifth or sixth soldier, their enquiry as to how many more are waiting contains a ring of hopefulness."

"Soldiers! You surely don't intend--"

"Calm your hopes, love. You are exclusively for my own personal use. Mind you, if I fail to please--"

"You're making fun of me. If I was as English as you say you are. I'd call you a cad."

"Got a snappy sound to it. Okay, I'm a cad. Any of the boys tell you you've got the most enticing cunt?"

"None had a front row seat the way you have. Look, get on with it, will you? Let's get it over with."

"That's a really shocking attitude. What you need is a drink. I'm having a short one. You may as well join me. I can lift your head and sort of pour it down your throat."

Tracy knew a ridiculous chagrin. Her rape was taking on some of the elements of farce. Her fantasy had not included a highball as prelude. She voiced the obvious. "If you'll untie one of my hands, I can do it myself."

"Oh, come now! Honor would compel you to fight, and I'd have all the trouble of tying you down again."

"I'll give you my word."

"Fact is, love, I like you the way you are. If I free one hand, the whole picture loses balance."

"You bastard!"

"See, you're nicely relaxed. You wouldn't have dared call me that if we hadn't established a nice friendly relationship."

"Cad! Bastard! Asshole!"

"I take exception to number three. I find it offensively vulgar. " He shook an admonishing finger. "I'm afraid I forgot to mention this."

The naked girl stared in unbelieving dismay. "This" was a whip. It flashed and sang a whining note as it bit her skin from crotch to knee, a girl's most tender flesh. As Tracy went berserk within her bonds, the casual tone still impinged her consciousness. "Vulgarity is never excusable. Don't use that word to me again." The colossal gall! The holier than thou! The pain! And to whip her in such an intimate place! Tracy's outrage was about to boil over into injudicious words. But her wrists and ankles were chafing from her brief agonized struggle. They cautioned prudence. She contented herself with: "Couldn't you have said something? You didn't have to hurt me. That was brutal."

"Sure, I could have said something. You'd have paid no attention, though. This way you'll remember."

There he stood, naked, strong, and male, the whip still held in a manner to daunt Tracy's courage. He was deliberately showing her the force beneath his seeming insouciance. The girl bound to the stakes picked up vibrations and knew herself possessed. She would be to this man exactly what he said: a convenience.

"You'll be pleased with the mark on your thigh," Marsh informed chattily. "It's maturing well. Want one on the other to match?" He was not fooling; he was actually serious. Tracy saw his eye measure and gauge the cut of the thong to leave her wealed on the tender inside flesh of both her splayed out thighs. Never in her life had she been so cruelly exposed. Pain had excised sarcasm and the bitter rejoinder. Weakly, she pleaded, "Please don't! It hurts so terribly. You can't know how it hurts."

"Just one?"

There was something else. The naked girl sensed he would not make her as a punishment, nor would it be for the sake of cruelty. Matthew Marsh found aesthetic pleasure in scarlet lines on female skin. But that was silly. It had to be silly!

The cut of the thong was swift, precise, and accurate. It had not awaited her tardy reply. The pain was worse. Tracy screamed.

It was a strange tableau. The man was a statue, tense, absorbed, drinking in every sound-and motion of the writhing girl. The stakes and his cords held Tracy Trevor without a tremor. Anguish was driving the bound nakedness to the only response a prisoner can make, to seek the freedom in which these things could not done to her. Tracy knew it an involuntary reflex, but her struggles helped. She could not deny their sterile comfort.

Tracy watched Marsh turn abruptly and pour the drinks. Her eyes were hurt, her silence sulky as his big hand cupped her hair and lifted her head. She drank avidly. When the glass was empty, he strained her head higher and tersely ordered, "Look."

They had a wicked beauty. The girl who bore them stared in rapt fascination at the vivid line imprinted on the inside of each of her widely spread thighs. Surely pride had no place in what she now saw and felt, but pride submerged all other emotions. The weals of Matthew Marsh's whip were an accolade. When he allowed her head to fall, he entered and possessed her with an extraordinary skill. The glory Tracy discovered beneath his weight and from his long, shrewd thrusts was a wonder entirely new. But she attributed it to being stretched and tied outspread. No doubt the nerves and muscles and strained tendons were responsible for such an enveloping blaze of sensation!

Shame was merciless. Tracy's climax left her enervated to the point of going instantly to sleep. Long afterwards, she blushed to think of her nakedness, still tied and spread out to male approval while she slept away the traumas of the day. When she woke, it was to find Matthew dressed and working at his desk. She was stiff and still helpless, the pillow still beneath her hips.

"You had a good sleep. Feel better?"

Was it possible to feel better after being raped? Obviously it was, but Tracy paid lip service to her mores. "I feel terribly ashamed, but, yes, the sleep was good. Can I be untied now?"

"You answered that yourself, love. No, you can't."

"Why can't I?"

"Because I'm going to fuck you again, that's why."

She had to be cautious. Marsh could be as vulgar as he pleased, but she could not. Tracy tried a reasonable complaint. "I've been tied like this for so long. It's hurting."

"You'll get used to it."

"If you'll untie me, I'll give you my parole."

"You'll stay tied because I like you tied. There's no other reason, so don't look for one."

"But I'm hurting!"

"Chalk it off against the pleasure you got from being raped."

"You son of a bitch!"

Tracy swallowed words, but it was too late for the ones which would now get her punished. She felt ten times bare. Hastily, she blurted out a lame apology.

"I'm sorry! I know I should haven't said that, but you say the most... oh, shit!" Then she plaintively said, "Please don't punish me this time. Give me a break."

"You call me a son of a bitch and then expect clemency?"

"Well... could we try mercy?"

"Ask yourself, Tracy: do you deserve it?"

He was playing with her. But it was a game she too must play, and by his rules. Angrily, she retorted, "Oh, all right, whip me!"

"Sorry, never on request." Tracy knew he was enjoying every word. "Let's have rape number two instead, shall we?"

Never had she been so utterly at the disposal of a man. It was infuriating and, as yet, she had no idea where it would eventually lead. Her best hope was for him to have his pleasure and tire of her flesh, then let her go. But what then? It could be a day or a year from now. Meanwhile, she would do as he pleased. In silence, she watched her master strip.

It should have been anticlimactic, but it was not. It should have revolted her, but it did not. The only shame she knew was with her own actions in twisting hurtfully against tied wrists and ankles, not in search of freedom but to add ecstasy. For a long time, Miss Tracy Trevor dwelled in a land of exquisite pain, without wish for surcease or thought of anything except the phallus possessing her loins. From a distant past, Effie's exultant voice proclaimed, "I told you there had to be something! I told you!"

She was not untied. It was a time when a man and a woman have no need of words. Marsh returned to his clothes and his desk. Tracy was content to close her eyes and dream. Her outrageous exposure now seemed normal. She was uncertain if she still ached or if the ropes hurt. She lay in a delicious limbo, a cheek against a bare bound arm. She no longer had to bother with decision. The loss of it felt good.

Mr. Matthew Marsh raped Miss Tracy Trevor several more times before darkness claimed the tent. He slept the night away beside her on the ground, using her bare arm or bare breast as a pillow. It all became delightfully natural.

Miss Tracy Trevor was not untied. Mr. Matthew Marsh quipped that bound was beautiful.

She did not argue.

CHAPTER TWO - THE POLE

The female prisoner of Captain Marsh of the Army of the Republic of Santos swiftly learned prudence. It was mostly a prudent choice of exclamations. There was little scope for it in act or motion. Tracy was forever bound or chained or fastened in some way. It had become a fact of life in keeping with his early assertion of keeping her around for his convenience. She supposed it a carnal convenience, since she was never allowed enough freedom to make their coffee. Captain Marsh kept his affairs in good order, and one of his affairs was certainly Tracy Trevor.

Tracy supposed herself in good order with her back against the pole of the tent. Matthew had pulled her arms back and handcuffed her wrists to make her a part of his canvas domicile. She could stand or she could sit. The choice was hers. But her hands would remain behind the pole. Handcuffed wrists mocked her dreams of liberty. Over and over in her mind, she rehashed her loss of it.

"Matt, you don't have to fasten me the way you've been doing. With you and your men, I don't have a hope of escape."

"Hmmmm... Maybe, but don't sell yourself short, love. I prefer you fastened."

"That word--fastened! It's only a polite way of saying 'tied up' or 'chained.' Matt, I get awfully tired of being attached to things."

"Until you get more attached to me, you'll have to put up with it." It had rested there. It still did. Each day, when he went about his military affairs, Tracy was fastened in some way to some thing. Mostly it was the pole, but the stakes were still there and were put to use also. There was an iron ring embedded in a cube of concrete buried in the ground, also used to imprison the girl. Humiliatingly, Tracy had spent time with one ankle attached to it by padlocks and an eight-foot length of links. It was the closest to freedom she had come, but it was the most frustrating of all her restraints. Tracy sighed and debated whether to slither to the ground and dispose herself to sleep in a cunning prisoner's expedient she had devised. But she remained as she was, playing with her handcuffs in a prisoner's eternal hope. To sink to the ground always seemed a measure of defeat.

Matthew kept her naked. Risking punishment, she never ceased complaint. "It's not decent, Matt, and there's no need--"

"No need to wear clothes either, love. Nice warm climate."

"But men come in and out, and they all look at me!"

"Can't say I blame 'em. You're something to look at."

"But it's not right. They all want to rape me."

"You still using that word& Can't you call it a good, honest fuck?"

"What! And be punished for vulgarity?"

Punishment had been a part of Tracy's life in the big tent. So far, it had been only one or a few strokes with a whip or a switch cut from some indigenous bush, but it had always sufficed to make her compliant and to tell her clearly of the awfulness of a sentence of ten or twenty strokes. Marsh had told her of other ways of punishing girls, but she scarcely believed it. It spoke of a world she did not want to know.

Tracy's punishments were an understood thing between the two of them. She understood his point about the teaching of lessons, respect for whoever owned you, a deterrent against rebellion. The penalties he spoke of in connection with attempts to escape were beyond contemplation. But Tracy knew that if a chance of escape presented itself, she would grasp it, consequences be damned. So far there had been none. Fretfully, she tugged at her metal wristlets. With those things on her wrists, she could never escape--not ever!

This was an outlying camp. If the captain was transferred to a more urban post, no doubt he would keep her prisoner in a room or a cell. She shuddered at such a prospect. True, she need not then be bound or chained, but this was best. She was sure it was best, even though more uncomfortable and she be naked. Often she nagged her captor about the duration of her captivity.

"What's it matter, love? If a girl isn't serving her man, she's wasting her time."

It was grossly unfair, but the whip handicapped all her arguments. If she offended or scored points, it made marks upon her skin. She wondered what a women's libber would do or say to Matthew Marsh, and how she would cope with the resultant stripes. Reluctantly, Tracy conceded the whip and the switch as potent factors in her own behavior.

"But, Matt, doesn't a girl have any other use to you than to be fucked?"

"None! Well, I suppose she's decorative, if you keep her naked. You certainly are."

"Matt, tell me when you'll let me loose."

"You mean that absurd condition you call freedom? That silly business of running around and being a nuisance, hoping some rich man with a big cock will marry you?"

"Oh, Matt, you don't really mean that!"

"Why else would I keep you in durance vile?"

The literary allusions made him English, but they did not endear his captive to his precepts. Tracy tried again. "But, Matt, if you married a girl, she'd be glad to be near you and to sleep with you, and if you were kind to her, she'd obey you too."

"Is that an offer? I mean, are you proposing?"