LYNSEY'S GAME

Lynsey was bored one night, which isn't the best reason for your life to change completely. But then, she didn't realize how far it would go or how much she would lose.

Lynsey was a pretty ordinary young woman, in her twenties. Her parents had spent a lot of money educating her, so she'd gone to University, learned a marketable skill, and then, well lubricated by family money and family contacts, she'd slid right into a well paying career. Nothing too extraordinary, but comfortable.

Physically, Lynsey was a stunner. A natural blonde, she had long legs and a round ass that had become J Lo fashionable just as it was developing. Her breasts were high and firm, not as large as she'd have liked, but suitable enough. Once in a while, she thought of breast implants, but never too seriously. She was satisfied with herself. Sex, like the rest of her life, had come easily and well lubricated, easy penetrations by lithe young boys, never wild or out of control.

Perhaps, it was because her life had been so smooth that she harboured a secret little hunger. She was a girl that nothing bad had ever happened to, and on some level, she didn't believe that it ever could. The world was greased for her to slide through with a minimum of bother and inconvenience, anything she wanted was hers for the asking.

So, deep down, she fantasized about rough sex. On the Vancouver skytrain, she learned, at certain hours and certain stations, she'd catch the tired worn strippers and whores riding to or from work. Exhausted worn women, with their smudged make up and too bright lipstick, slouching in their �fuck me' outfits. Sometimes sitting legs akimbo, so anyone could see up their thighs, and they couldn't care less. Every now and then, some weary slut would finish the night too dragged out to wipe, and Lynsey would catch the pearly gleam of semen on a thigh or a blouse. To say this turned her on wasn't quite right, rather, it heated her, raised her temperature, fascinated her with its consequences and implications. These slags and skanks were fucked out, and it wasn't the gentle touches of her polished lovers, it was industrial fucking, hard fucking, real cocks from hard, cruel men.

She could imagine them on their knees, bent over tables, spread out on beds, on all fours on the floor, taking it from a variety of brutal men. That made her wet. Oh, yes it did.

She liked to watch the men too, but more carefully. Hard men with tattoos and prison muscles, black gangsters, grizzled street people, vicious teens and middle aged hustlers. She never invited conversation, and if they spoke to her, she shut it down. But she loved their sidelong glimpses and the thought of men like these putting their hard meat to the degenerate skanks.

She just never thought she'd be one of them.

That was certainly never in her fantasies. When she masturbated, it was never her writhing under black or white thugs, but the worn out, ruined girls who rode the skytrain. Girls who dressed to be fucked (and she'd never dress like that) deserved to be fucked, needed that fucking.

And if once in a while, when her dildo was deep inside, and the vibrator on her clit, if it was her face and body in skank outfits, bent over and on all fours to some gangbanger. Well, that was just fantasy. She was far too fastidious to do these things, or even to contemplate doing these things.

So, what fucked her life?

The internet. On the internet, she one day, discovered skank sites and slut sites, places where worn out whores gained a few dollars selling their pictures. From there, she discovered story sites, which fed her wicked fantasies. Even chatrooms, especially chatrooms, her undoing.

So, one night, Lynsey was in an internet chatroom, masturbating slowly, playing with the men. There were other women there, but Lynsey was never sure if they were real women. Some, she thought, were, some she was sure, weren't. She didn't care about them. She loved chatting with the men, encouraging their brutal fantasies, nothing too violent, just degradation and possession.

�What are you wearing,� one of the regulars, Mkay asked her.

�A bustier, garter belt and nipple clamps,� she typed back. Actually, she was just wearing a robe and fuzzy slippers.

�Bullshit,� Mkay said. That offended her.

�Fuck you then,� she typed.

�I'd love to get my hands on you for real,� he typed. She smiled. It was going to spin into some nasty little fantasy scene, a little force, a little rape, some bondage, and she'd have a nice little orgasm for his efforts. She'd type just the minimum to keep him going, maybe guide him a little bit.

But in the end, for all the violence in his words, it would be as smooth and effortless and inconvenience free as her sex always was. Satisfaction guaranteed, minimal effort required.

�I think we'd all love to get our hands on you Lynsey,� Mike wrote. �How about a real life chance?�

�What,� she typed amused, �you want a meeting? I'll think about it.�

�Yeah right,� Mike typed.

Then she had a little idea, a delicious little idea, an idea that sent a little surge of wetness down her lips. An idea that ultimately meant that everything that happened was her own doing, not that it really mattered in the end.

�Tell you what,� Linsey wrote. �We'll play a game. I'll give you a clue, and if you can find me, you can have me.�

�One lousy clue?�

�Clues,� she amended. �Every time I'm on, I'll deliver a few more clues. Watch for clues, put them together, find me and.�

�And what?�

�Rape me. I'm the prize. If you can track me down, you can rape me, blow your load, whatever. You own my body.�

�You want to be raped?� Mkay asked skeptically.

�Yes,� Linsey typed, her pussy suddenly on fire, her cunt clenching, wetter than she'd ever been. Her heart was pounding. �I want to be raped.�

She caught herself, �but I don't want to make it easy, so if you want me, you have to work for it. So are you up for the game?�

�Can I play too?� Another guy, Jerry, typed.

�Anyone can play,� she said. Another shiver went through her. It was real life that excited her. Oh not that there was one chance in a million, or ten million. Hell, if she thought someone might really nail her, she'd have gotten off the computer right then. But still, there was the possibility, a real possibility, so faint and illusive that it was almost nonexistent, but just there enough to spark her clit. To make her shiver and squirm.

�Yeah, bullshit clues, we'll never find you.�

�No, I promise. I'll only do real clues.�

�Yeah,� Mike challenged, �what are you wearing right now? No bullshit.�

Bite the bullet time.

�A terrycloth bathrobe and bunny slippers,� she typed.

�Fuck,� Mkay wrote. �No garter belt?�

�I don't even own one.�

�I'll play,� Mike typed. �For my clues, I want you to answer a few questions.�

�Sometimes I'll answer questions, sometimes I'll give you things, but I won't make it too easy.�

�Where do you live?�

Lynsey burst out laughing.

�I won't make it too easy by giving you an address,� she wrote. �But I live in Vancouver.�

�Height?�

�Five feet, seven inches.�

�Weight?�

�115 pounds.�

�Hair?�

�Honey blonde, shoulder length, bangs in front.�

�The hunt is on.� Someone typed.

And reading that, Lynsey's fingers slammed into her cunt, pulling her lips wide, fingering her clit to an explosive, thrilling, delicious orgasm.

She signed off without explanation, as she usually did, and went to watch TV.

Little did she know, the Mike also lived in Vancouver, as did three or four other men who frequented that chatroom from time to time. She might have known if she'd checked the member logins, but that was her mistake.



Mike stared at the screen, stroking his erection. The bitch had signed off again. That didn't surprise him, he'd come to expect it. The minute the bitch came, she was gone. It didn't matter to her whether her cyberpartner came which was bad enough. But worse in his view, she had no respect for the mechanics of a good well structured fantasy. Mike considered himself an artist, and after his first few encounters with Lynsey, he just didn't bother. Not that she ever noticed his indifference.

So, he wondered, was this for real? He doubted it, the self absorbed bitch would never really put herself at risk. There wasn't one chance in a thousand. But even one chance in a thousand.?

It could be a hell of a game, he decided. Abruptly, he created a new database directory, named it Linsey, and dumped all the �clues' in there. Then he instituted a file function to record her visits to the chat room and everything she said. Then he emailed a few of his internet friends in Vancouver to let them know about this fascinating little game.

A thousand to one shot? Worth buying a ticket to take the bitch down.



Lynsey found herself flying through the day. She skipped at work, riding the skytrain she couldn't help glancing around, wondering if one of those faces belonged to the someone from her chatroom. Ridiculous and infinitely improbable, but exciting nevertheless. Why, she might be stalked even now!

Okay, that couldn't possibly happen, not with the bullshit handful of clues she'd given. There must be 50,000 girls in Vancouver with her height and build and hair colour, and there was no way that any contact would be anything but totally accidental.

But still. She kept thinking back to that internet chat, to the game, and she'd find herself getting wet.

When Lynsey got home, she couldn't wait to masturbate, bring herself to a rich satisfying orgasm. Later, as the evening wore on, the tingle began. She signed into the chatroom. Mike was there, revelling in the game, she flirted and dropped a few more clues. And came again.



Most internet games wore off, their themes tired, and Lynsey got bored. But this one got more exciting each time she played. It was now a customary ritual, she would sign on, chat, flirt, cyber or role play, but somewhere along the line, she would drop another clue or two. Usually real ones, it was better that way. A few fake ones, because, after all, she wasn't stupid.

And real clues mostly. She was always careful not to give away anything critical. It would be a restaurant she'd eaten in, or perhaps a favourite brand of coffee, or a description of an article of clothing. But with each, there was the sense of giving away a little piece of herself, there was a little revelation, a surrender that might somehow be her undoing. Perhaps they knew that restaurant, or staked it out? Perhaps they would spot her in that article of clothing? You never know. It was risky, and the risk drove her insane.

Sometimes, giving away a particular clue, she would be so overcome by the idea of surrender, the idea that this might be her undoing, that she would come in a splashing, shuddering orgasm.

And she came. Linsey was having the best orgasms of her life. It was a nasty, vile, vicious game, and she loved it.

It seemed to put her in a state of permanent arousal, it made her more richly aware of herself, of the possibilities. The idea that she might be under surveillance, might be stalked, that any minute some rough man might grab her and drag her into an alley, made her stomach flutter and her nipples hard. Once or twice, in the middle of the day, she even had to sneak in to some bathroom and quickly masturbate.



�So,� Mike typed. �The restaurant is bullshit.�

He typed into a very select chatroom, to a very select group of friends. They were the Linsey project, and there were six of them.

A few he'd known from real life before. After all, guys with identical interests, the same sorts of nasty, misogynous tastes in women, it was nice to go to a strip club, tip a beer and fuck with some desperate stripper.

They were an eclectic group. A black steelworker, a computer nerd, a mechanic and so on. Truly they didn't have a lot in common besides a love for degrading and debasing women. So they didn't hang out much. But once in a while, they might get together, one or two, here or there, and share an activity. Like abusing some crack whore. So they trusted each other.

Mike had introduced some real time friends to the chatroom. A few others had come along. The group worked itself out.

The Lynsey project united them, it galvanized them, giving them a sense of purpose. They were going to hunt the bitch.

�Yeah,� Jack typed. �But it's Italian, and she's expressed a preference for Italian food a few times. And there is an Italian restaurant three blocks away from her bullshit location.�

�Hmmm,� Zacc said, �we should put that one in the maybe category.�

They were building up an elaborate profile of her. They had, by this time, a very detailed description of her appearance, not quite enough for a police sketch artist, but getting better all the time. Parts of it were not immediately useful, for instance they knew what her nipples looked like. But who knew when that would come in handy. They had descriptions of several sets of earings, and of numerous articles of her clothing.

�Gonna put rings through them nipples,� Jack told them. �Gonna put heavy ass rings, maybe 4 gage, gonna braze them so they can't be taken off, make them so big you see them poking through her bra. If we let her wear one.�

They knew her birthday, three digits of her social insurance number, and four digits from her Mastercard. They knew two banks she wasn't dealing with, and a dozen restaurants where she'd been, what days she had done her shopping, and her favourite dry cleaning chain. They even knew several areas where she occasionally went to shop or relax.

It built up steadily. Sometimes, when one of them had a day off, he'd spend it hanging out, frequenting some area where they believed she hung out. There was a slim chance she might be passing through on that day. They even had a search methodology. Find a traffic point where everyone had to pass through, find someplace comfortable and wait and watch. A few times, they even carried a digital camera, trying to build up a database of possibles, that could be compared, sifted, and used to determine if there was a recurring face.

Of course, you would see a lot of �maybe' girls. Never anyone quite perfect, of course. Always a little short, a little tall, a little heavy, the earings not quite as described, an article of clothing close but not quite. But you could watch one go by and just imagine it was the bitch, and your cock would get hard as a rock. Sometime, if she was really close to the description, they might follow, ambling along behind her for a few minutes, trying to get a better look.

Once or twice, Lynsey thought someone might be following her. But of course, it was just her imagination. Still, the feeling would leave her drenched, cunt clenching, just aching to masturbate to an increasingly intense orgasm, fantasizing that she really was followed and what they had planned to do to her.



�Which garter belt are you wearing,� Mike typed.

�The red one,� she responded. Lynsey really did have garter belts now, and she was wearing one to command.

The game, of course, had evolved, as games always do. When the intensity had lagged, although never by much, with clues, it had gained a little more edge with suggestions. Minor suggestions, wear a particular set of earings today. How about this jacket? That lipstick?

It excited Lynsey to obey. It was mostly innocuous. No one would look twice at her if she happened to be wearing her black bolero jacket. Except that someone had told her to do so. Someone who was outside somewhere and might somehow, possibly, maybe glimpse her in it. It upped the risk level just a tiny bit, and the effect on her was orgasmic, paralyzing, thrilling.

She loved it. And so, the requests, finding compliance, became a little bolder. Buy a particular brand of moist, wet looking lipstick. It didn't suit her, but she bought it. How about a velour miniskirt? Why not, she thought, trying one on, it made her ass look good. Of course, she never took a real chance, if she was shopping an item to order, she always made sure to go to some out of the way place and never went there twice.

It was when she was in front of the computer screen that the sexual intensity was hottest, that she got the wettest. And it was in front of the computer screen that the requests first evolved into commands. Little instructions for dress up, and then undress, to put on lipstick or make up. They couldn't know whether she had the lipstick on or not, but it pleased her, excited her, to do it anyway. They couldn't know she was obeying, but that wasn't important, she knew. The game made her shiver.

Ordered to buy a bustier, she bought one and wore it before the screen. Then a garter belt, and another, and another. Stockings and stay ups followed, charcoal, fishnets, cream. She shaved her pussy for the silent masters on the other side of the screen, her shimmering smoothness making her unbelievably wet. She wore lingerie for them, put it on or took it off on command, spread her legs.

And came and came and came.

Excited, boldened, she confessed little fantasies, revealed her fascination with slutware. So of course, they commanded, describing slutty outfits, ordering, sending her searching. Linsey would dress the part for her computer screen, making herself look like a cheap whore, even putting runs in stockings, sloppily applying make up. And then spreading her legs and letting her cyberpartners push her to splendid orgasm.

She was, without realizing it becoming a slave. She was, only vaguely realizing it, addicted.

And when she got breast implants, she even mostly believed it was her idea.

But of course, she was always careful never to give away too much. It was one thing to dress in slutware, to spread and whimper and beg in front of the computer screen.

But some suggestions/orders went unanswered. She didn't go to a peep show on Granville, to the third booth, where a glory hole waited, and so never sucked a cock, was never spotted, photographed, sorted and identified. She didn't go to specific lingerie shops for specific items. She never got her nipples pierced, despite numerous demands, and numerous assents. And, once in a while, she'd lie about what she was wearing, or what she was going out in, just to throw it off, although in those moments, she'd tell herself that she was just bored with the game and who cares anyway.

So, although they were steadily closing in on her, she remained safe and oblivious. For the time being.



Her undoing came on a Saturday morning. She signed on to her chat, to see if anyone was there. Mike was.

�Hey slut,� he greeted her.

�Hey.�

�What are you doing today?�

�Shopping, I think.�

�Cool. What are you wearing right now?�

�Nothing.� Which was true.

�Shall I dress you?�

Linsey got wet.

�Sure.�

�Black garter belt.�

A moments pause, she returned wearing it loosely tugged around her waist. No stockings, she'd learned to wait to be told what stockings.

�Fishnet stockings.�

�What kind?�

�The large ones.�

She complied, and sat spreading her legs.

�Okay.�

�Now.� Mike thought a second, �I want you to wear this to go shopping today.�

Lynsey felt her heart race. She was suddenly fully wet, her nipples hardened. She licked her lips.

�Okay,� she lied. She'd wear any kind of shit in front of the computer screen, but she was a lot more careful out of doors. It wasn't that she really thought they'd spot her, she just didn't like looking too much like a slut.

Mike paused, trying to gauge her. Deep down, beneath all her clues and fantasies, he knew she was chickenshit. She might say or do anything on line, and he mostly believed her when she told them about her lingerie. But to slut out in public? No, she might be pushed a little there, but not too far, not yet.

�The red knit dress,� he ordered.

Lynsey was surprised. It wasn't nearly as slutty as she had been expecting, or hoping.

The red knit dress was a party dress, it looked good on her, clinging to the curves of her body, showing cleavage, but not too much, moderately short, but not as short as her miniskirts. It was just vaguely, juicily slutty. It was the sort of dress a woman wore to show she was fire in bed, though not necessarily for anyone.

�Is that really what you want?� She asked.

�I want you walking around shopping in this,� he said, �red dress and fishnets, like a whore taking time off.�

The idea sent shivers up her spine and thrills down her cunt. Not that she'd do it, but she could actually visualize herself doing it. It was. Possible.

She went to put on the dress.

�High heels, for shopping,� was waiting for her, �those ankle boots.�

�No panties.�

�No bra.�

�Cherry lipstick.�

�Eye liner.�

�Now sit at the edge of the chair, hike the dress up your thighs and spread your legs. Do you have the dildo. Take it and lick it.�

Fifteen minutes later, she came and as usual, signed off the net. On the other side, Mike cursed. Then he got on the phone. This was too good. According to their database, there were four areas where Lynsey usually shopped. It was a Saturday morning, she was within her patterns.

There were six of them to stake out the four areas. Jesus, this might be it. If she wore even part of the outfit, hell, even if she didn't wear, there was still a chance they might spot her.

Lynsey busied herself around her apartment, doing some tidying up, taking care of a few things. She slipped out of the boots, but continued to wear the dress and stockings. They weren't uncomfortable or outrageous, especially around the apartment. It made her feel sexy.

After half an hour, she found herself getting wet. After forty five minutes, she was seriously considering going online. But if Mike was there, he would probably be pissy about her signing off. She chewed her lip. There would probably be someone to play with her. But if she stayed on the net all day, she wouldn't get any shopping done.

Abruptly, she decided. Why not? Take a step? Wear this outfit outdoors? The red dress, she decided, wasn't really that bad. More a party dress, but really, not all that bad for shopping. She might turn a few heads, but she didn't look like a whore. The stiletto ankle boots she wore outdoors half the time anyway. So what did it really come down to? The stockings, that was all. Her heart pounded. Why not? No panties or bra? Who would know?

Do it.

She was wet, suddenly.

Do it.

She pulled the dress up to her crotch, fingered her wet cunt.

Why not?

Do it?

Do it.

Yes.

Humming, brimming with excitement, almost floating with sexual tension, she left the apartment.



Ian had been sitting at the skytrain gate to Metrotown reading the same damned newspaper for four hours. He was fucking bored.

All the things he could be doing today, instead, he was here wasting his time on the off chance that some blonde bitch might be passing by. What are the odds, he told himself, one in a thousand.

Of all the borderline rapists and woman beaters of the Lynsey project, he was the most skeptical. Sure, there was a certain fun to it, a certain excitement. But he wasn't sure if he truly expected to find her, or what they'd do with her if they did. Sure as shit, it wasn't going to be today.

But Mike, fucking Mike, had one of his wild inspirations. So everyone else had signed on to waste their day. Which meant Ian had to go along.

So he sat there, reading the same fucking newspaper articles over and over again, scanning over every trainload of incoming passengers as they debarked on the platform and alternately fantasizing about raping the bitch and punching out Mike.

Another train.

Ian glanced out. That fucking Mike, he swore to himself. He glanced up.

A tall blonde, maybe 5'7" without her heels, paused on the platform. She had long legs wrapped in large fishnets, every man that passed glanced at those legs, and a formfitting red knit dress which exposed healthy cleavage. By the way her nipples pushed at the dress, there was no bra. It hugged so close he could see the telltale ridge at her hip that people might take for panties, but he knew was a garter belt. She licked glossy lips, an unconscious gesture that brought his cock hammering to painful erection in his pants.

It was her! Holy shit, it was the bitch! After all this time, Ian couldn't believe it. There she was standing there like a wet dream. Ian almost lost it, almost gave himself away. Her gaze swept over him, indifferent, didn't linger. A part of him wanted to jump, run up, grab her by the hair, slap her face, force her to kneel and then shove his hard cock between those glossy lips. With a massive effort of will, he restrained himself. All those fucking promises, oh she never thought she'd have to come through, and she'd probably try to weasel out.

The plan. Play it cool. Ian controlled himself. Reaching down for the digital camera concealed by his newspaper, he snapped off a series of shots. He couldn't aim properly, all he could do was point and click while trying to look invisible. She never noticed. She proceeded down the stairs He dared to lift the camera to catch some shots of her backside descending the stairs. What a fucking ass! He thought of the sound she'd make as he shoved his cock between those luscious cheeks into a dry, unlubricated, squirming anus, the squeals of violation, and he almost came in his pants.

The minute she was out of sight, he grabbed for his cell phone.

�Mike, you bastard! She's here, dressed exactly the way you said, fucking exactly. She's coming your way, get into place!�

Only then did he lay the newspaper over his lap so he could unobtrusively stroke his erection, and lift up the camera screen to see what his pictures had captured of her.



Lynsey wandered through the Metrotown mall complex, not hurrying. She was mostly just window shopping, she didn't need to buy anything in particular. She smiled to herself, her outfit attracted a lot of attention, she was very conscious of being window shopped herself. It was harmless attention though, perhaps a little exciting to think of her future rapist (Rapists? Nah) as one of the watchers, but really that was bullshit. Still, she could feel male gazes like pinpricks that gave her goosebumps, caught glances sliding off her like oil. It made her nipples hard, it made her pleasantly wet down there. She fucking loved it.

So she drifted through, window shopping here and there, and letting herself be window shopped. She would, she decided, have to do this again. Maybe even a little more daring next time.



She passed by Jack close enough that he could have reached out and squeezed her nipples. He could barely restrain himself from glancing into her cleavage. He could tell she noticed his quickly averted look, he caught her half smile, watched as she forgot about him almost instantly. His heart pounding, his cock pushing against his pants, he turned away. It was okay, up ahead, he knew Mike was waiting, he'd seen him.

They were shadowing her carefully, doing it professionally. First one, then the other, sometimes ahead of her, sometimes behind, so she never realized that she was being stalked. And in the meantime, the others were closing in. Mike had called the rest off from their vigils, Jack was the first to arrive.

Up ahead, she stopped and chatted and laughed as a couple of giggling teenagers pointed their camcorder at her. She piroueted and then wiggled her ass for their camera, and then wandered off in Mike's direction as the teenagers found someone else to point the camera at. Mike had paid the teenagers a hundred dollars and loaned them the camcorder for the express purpose of getting her on video without her fully realizing who and why. Now, in a few minutes, he'd have to retrieve it for Mike.

His cell phone rang. �What's next?� Zacc's voice called. It was time to plan the next steps.



Lynsey never suspected that the man sitting on the skytrain as she departed Metrotown was watching her. In fact, if she noticed him at all, it was because, alone of the men in the skytrain cabin, he never glanced at her. She crossed her legs to draw his attention, slid one hand down a fishnet clad thigh. He glanced towards her, then back to the window. Satisfied, she forgot about him.

Peter marked the station she got off at, and then, exceeding the agreed plan, he got off to follow her. He trailed her down two streets until the crowd thinned out, and then ducked into a Subway Shoppe. His regret was almost physical, but they couldn't set up a proper tail for this leg. Next time.

At least he had some great digital shots of her legs. Their long length wrapped in fishnet, the slivers of garter belt and bare skin around the stocking as he dress had ridden up before being unconsciously pushed back down. Maybe even a glimpse of pussy as she'd sat down, that would be too lucky. Maybe. He flipped open his cell phone, �Target is lost,� he announced.

�Roger,� the voice replied. �We'll pick her up again. Come on in, its time to celebrate.�



Upon her return home, Lynsey found the chatroom curiously bland. Still, she was keyed up and excited from her experience. She dropped a handful of worthless, mostly false, clues, and reached a satisfying orgasm.

Meanwhile, her chatroom �masters' had gathered in a restaurant, a real restaurant to celebrate.

�Fucking A, Mike,� Ian crowed, �Fucking A, we tracked her. You're the man!�

A champagne bottle popped, and soon they were all toasting him. Digital cameras circulated around the table as they compared their shots. There were 122 shots that had Lynsey in them, another 40 that were spoiled, and a precious minute of videotape. Many of the shots were junk, or of her backside, which wasn't bad because she had a clearly fuckable ass. There were a few standout shots, of her breasts, of her face and profile, and one very provocative shot giving the most tantalizing glimpse of her pussy.

�Gentlemen,� Mike announced finally, �We've made a breakthrough, that's true. And I'm glad we didn't screw it up. I would have loved to take that bitch's ass myself, but we all held on and showed restraint. We still have some more work to do though, before we have her where we want her.�

�Man,� said Jack, �I'd have loved to have taken her right there, raped her fucking ass.�

�No good,� Mike replied, we've talked about it. �She figures this is just a game and she's not really going to get caught. All that stuff she says about taking her, that's bullshit, if she got raped, she'd go straight to the cops. So instead, we do it carefully, when we're ready, we rape her and get away with it and we do more than rape her, we fucking own her ass.�

�We're going to get her,� Zacc said. �She's so got. She's all hog tied right now, she just doesn't know it, and won't know it till we put the branding iron to her.�

Ian filed away the thought of a branding iron. Definitely a possibility.

�Well,� said Jack, �all I've got to say is: Here's to phase two!�

They cheered and toasted.

Later on, after the restaurant closed, they bought a thirteen year old crack whore for the night. They rented a seedy hotel room, and took turns abusing the haunted wraith, and although the spent their lust and aggression on her scrawny waifish body Lynsey's face and figure was in their minds.

When they were finished, the took turns urinating on her unconscious body, dropped a few twenties, and all headed to their respective homes.

Phase two was about to start.



Lynsey didn't go slutting outdoors all next week, although several times, she was tempted to, and the �masters' in her chatroom pushed.

She was obedient in front of the screen, spreading her legs, dressing to command, scattering clues, good ones, before rocketing to orgasm. She never realized, and they never let her realize that her clues were no longer necessary.

On Tuesday, four of the guys had booked time off and gathered at her skytrain in the afternoon, waiting for her to return home from work. Their tail was invisible, and they tracked her to her apartment building.

The next day, Peter was in the elevator with her, when she got off at her floor. Within an hour after that, careful legwork identified her apartment number, and from there, her full name. They were amused to discover that her first name really was Lynsey.

It just got easier. By Thursday, they'd tailed her to her office, identified her workplace, and her job. By Friday, they had her work schedule.

It only took them so long because they were being so very, very careful. Lynsey was oblivious, she had no idea the noose was tightening about her, that it was no longer a game. She wouldn't have noticed if they were less discrete, might have missed it if they'd been obvious. She just didn't realize her danger, and so she carried on her life, of which wicked little computer fantasies were a larger and larger part. They watched her go about blithely, and it only increased their contempt for her.

That Saturday, they pushed and persuaded her into slutting out again. This time high heeled boots, velvet miniskirt and tube top. She chickened out a little, adding a heavy jean jacket to give a bit of modesty. But still definitely skanky.

This time, she wandered off someplace new, and they eventually lost the tail on her. No big deal. It was time for phase three.

When she got home, in a fit of pique, Mike forced her to fuck herself with her biggest dildo. Which pushed her to a shuddering orgasm, and left her oddly nervous, with the oddest feeling that things were getting a little out of control.



Phase Three began on Wednesday, when her apartment door opened an hour after she had gone to work and four men walked in. Jack hadn't been able to get off work, and Chuck didn't want to be tagged for B&E. But they had, like the rest contributed financially to the next phase of their little project, pooling both money and technical skill.

Zacc had done plenty of B&E's, and he knew how to spring a lock without anyone being the wiser. Ian was along for the ride. Peter carried a briefcase full of equipment as did Mike. Everyone was a bit nervous, except for Mike. Nerves were understandable, breaking into a woman's home was tantamount to breaking into her. It was a big step. It had all been fun and games, up until then. But this was for real.

�Fuck!� Ian swore. �I can't believe it. We're in.�

�Yeah,� Mike said, his voice businesslike to conceal his tension. �We've all got a job to do, let's do it.�

He surveyed the apartment, spotting her computer, and went directly to it. For a second, he memorized the position of her chair, contemptuously noting the pussy stains on the fabric. Then he sat down, cracked open his case, and booted up her computer.

As Mike attached a zip drive and began copying out the entire content of her computer, Peter slowly surveyed the apartment, examining each room in turn, looking for the best place to insert spy cams, how to hook up the power feeds and where to sneak the splices into the phone lines.

Zacc took out a small dictaphone and digital camera. He went into the bathroom first, photographing and describing the contents of her medical cabinet, her soaps and shampoos, the toiletries, even the types, colours and softnesses of towels. Finishing quickly, he went into the bedroom, to catalogue her lingerie and wardrobe for them. It would keep him out of trouble, the others figured.

Ian went carefully through her papers. �Aha,� he announced, �found her phone book.�

�Rather you found her diary,� Peter grumbled. He cracked his suitcase open and set up a scanner plate, so that Ian could photocopy the pages.

�Her diary, if she's got one, is probably on computer, we're getting it. The phone book is pretty good,� Mike offered, �it's got all the names and addresses, phone numbers, of family and friends. I'm sure that we can find a way to use that.� He paused. �Look for her tax returns.�

�What the fuck will that do?� Peter asked.

Mike shrugged. The zip drive had finished. He inserted a disk containing a tailored program, not quite a virus. What it was designed to do was to log her every keystroke, and send it to his computer, without her ever knowing. �Can't hurt. We want everything on this bitch.�

Peter grunted. He'd found a suitable location for a spy cam in the bathroom. They were soon going to be seeing a lot more of Linsey.

A hooting came out of the bedroom. Zacc had found her collection of sex toys and dildoes. Ian went to check it out.

�Remember where everything was,� Mike called, �we want it all back in exactly the same place. If she figures out someone has been here we're fucked.�

�She's fucked,� Zacc yelled back.

�Not quite yet,� Mike whispered. �But soon. Hey?�

�What?�

�She's got a cam on her computer.�

�So what, the bitch never uses it for us.�

�Yeah, but I bet we can switch it to hidden mode, so it doesn't register as being on, but its registering and broadcasting everything.�

�Can you do that?�

�Yeah, but we'll have to come again. I don't have the software here.�

�Fine, maybe we can save a spycam. We were planning a few trips, anyway. I still have to figure out a phone tap.�



Linzey didn't notice anything out of sorts when she got home, although if she'd looked carefully, she might have spotted a few things.

The cybersex was, for some reason, particularly fiery. Several of her �masters' were on, and they almost seemed to be coordinating, stoking her higher and higher, never quite allowing her to come, until finally, her orgasm was like a nuclear explosion. For once, she didn't simply sign off, she was too overwhelmed, and they extracted a promise from her to slut herself out to order the next morning. They'd get together in cyber in the morning to choose an outfit.

Feeling sated, Linsey pulled herself together enough to take a nice long shower. As she soaped her breasts and unselfconsciously fingered her already lubricating cunt, she had no idea that she had an audience.



Linzey wasn't sure about how they dressed her that morning. Cream stockings and a short shocking pink skirt that barely covered her garters. She'd have to be careful sitting down. At least the top was relatively modest, not quite excessive. A tight black sweater (mercifully allowing a bra), high neck and bare arms without appreciable cleavage, and a heavy white jacket. She might not have gone for it at all, just lied and told them she was wearing it. But the jacket allowed her just that bit more of concealment. She wondered vaguely when she'd mentioned it to them, she couldn't recall. It wasn't important.

As it turned out, the day was hot, so after sweating a few hours, she took the jacket off. She got a lot of glances around the office, but no one spoke to her about her obviously inappropriate attire. After all, she usually dressed professionally.

Since no one said anything, she decided it wasn't so bad. She decided to go trolling for looks at the mall, after work. She had discovered that she liked being window shopped.



The second visit completed the enslavement of Linsey's computer, if not of Linsey herself. The cam was now permanently on, permanently relaying to Mike's computer. A few more adjustments, and he could read her email before she received it, and control her computer from his workstation. Not that he intended to tip his hand.

The phone �tap' wasn't even really a tap, just an adjustment to the phone circuits, so that the phone read as having an extension line. Which happened to be a dedicated line that Mike had paid for in his apartment, hooked up to digital recording so that every call in or out was monitored.

A few more visits, and they knew her apartment better than she did. They knew how many cups she had in her cupboard, the brand name of unused condoms in her drawer. They had copies of every key, had the passwords and codes.

It wasn't enough for them. Mike raped her computer's memories, they examined her favourite internet sites, measured the frequency and duration of her visits. With her credit card numbers, they electronically requisitioned her visa and mastercard statements going back years. Phone records were pored over, cross referenced to her private phone book. They looked at old restaurant receipts, old letters, cards, tax returns. Piece by piece, they knew more about her shallow, empty, selfish life than she did.

Mike's database grew immense, the data only saved from being unwieldy by Mike's careful software architecture. Much of it was useless, or apparently useless. Some of it found applications.

They used her private writings, the information about her internet readings to fine tune their sexual manipulation of her.

All Linsey knew was that they all just seemed better and better at pressing just the right buttons. They seemed to know when to hold off, to keep her shivering without letting her over the edge. The chat cyber-sex became, if anything, more intense and she grew more addicted, more obedient.

They were astonished, the first night the video feed was open to them. They watched her trick herself out in lingerie at their commands and then masturbate herself to quivering helplessness with a savage dildo. It was the first time they saw the degree of control they'd slowly won over her. As they watched her ram the dildo up her body again and again, watched her quake and shudder, a thin stream of drool at the corner of her mouth, they were awed, and as one, felt an even greater hunger to crush her utterly.

That night, they gathered again to celebrate. Not bothering with the restaurant, they bought the thirteen year old crack whore, who at least knew what to expect this time. They were merciless.

The game was still going on, she still gave up clues. Most of the clues were now useless to them, they played the game to keep stringing her along. But there was another purpose now. Leaving her in her false sense of security, they could probe for deeper clues. Things she thought would not reveal her identity, and so did not guard so carefully. They probed, identifying weaknesses and vulnerabilities, bits of history, insights into friendships, insecurities. Things that they could use against her.



Under their influence, she started to experiment with butt plugs, and then a vibrator up her ass. They tutored her in fantasies more and more baroque. They made her come while telling her how they would have her suck a dog's cock.

The cyber-sex relationship had simply swept aside any interest in regular relationships. Linsey found that it was awkward trying to spend time with friends, she was now setting appointments, times with her cyber �masters' and somehow, these always seemed to conflict with times she intended for friends. She saw them less and less frequently, and because she seemed so frequently busy when they called, they called less often.

This disturbed her once in a while, and she would resolve to spend more time with her friends. But that would fade as she spread her legs. The comes were so good. They pushed just the right buttons, and they pushed harder and harder.

And if certain emails from friends were intercepted and deleted, if certain messages were not recorded on her answering machine, how was she to know? Slowly, and with exquisite, delicate care, they were cutting her out of the herd, isolating their prey. Without understanding why or how, she and her friends drifted away from each other.

She was slutting out more. Once or twice at work. But mostly in the weekends and evenings. Once she dressed like the cheapest whore, her top a simple string bikini, a skirt so short that it did not conceal her garters, heavy eyeliner and runs in her stockings. She rode the late skytrain, letting the other passengers stare at her, take her for nothing more than a worn out slag. As she rode, she got wetter and wetter, her thighs slick. At the end of the ride, she had to stumble to the women's washrooms to masturbate furiously.

Mostly though, it was more subdued. Too wild and she balked. A few times, she refused to play altogether. But she was surprised at the number of times they did manage to coax her out, and at the way they seemed always able to push her a little bit further than she was prepared to go.

There were setbacks. She was sent home from the office one day for dressing inappropriately. Overcome with shame, she stayed off the net for two days. They tensely watched her walk around the apartment, before she finally broke down and went online to them. Minutes later, they had a dildo up her ass. They had her again.

When they thought she was ready, they ordered her on a mission: Wear your fishnet body stocking, halter top, hot pants. Go to the peep show on Granville, go to booth number three,

Sit. If a cock slides through the glory hole, suck it, swallow it, and come home to tell us all about it.

She made it perhaps halfway, dressing as ordered, and even going into the booth. But her nerve broke an instant later, and Chuck watched her flee, wobbling on her platform heels. Zacc cursed, in booth two, he hadn't even taken his cock out of his pants.

A subsequent order for her to participate in wet T-shirt Amateur night at a remote strip club met with flat refusal.

Regretfully, they concluded that they had found her limits.

�Phase fucking four,� Zacc muttered, angry over his lost blow job. �Phase fucking four,� they agreed.



Linsey liked to drink a glass of orange juice before going to bed. It was a longstanding habit, perhaps a relic of a happy childhood ritual. Unknown to her, they often watched her sip from her orange juice as she played.

Tonight, however, Linsey felt tired. It had been a long day at the office, everyone was riding her ass. She'd lost a certain amount of respect there for the way she had dressed, something she didn't quite appreciate. Fatigue stole over her, and she decided, for once, to go to bed early.

Ninety minutes later, as she was snoring, her door opened. Three men walked in. For this next move, they'd reluctantly decided on a minimal crew.

�Okay,� Mike whispered, as he let the others in, �ski masks on, everyone remember, no unnecessary conversation.�

�I don't know why we have to bother, she's out,� grumbled Ian. They could hear her snoring.

�No taking chances yet,� Mike repeated. �Drugs can be unpredictable. This stuff is supposed to leave her docile and mildly euphoric, and fuck her memory formation. But that doesn't mean there's not a chance she might freak on us, or that she might remember.�

�Well, in that case,� Zacc whispered, �we go straight to phase five and break the bitch. I'm okay with that.�

There were grunted assents. Ian was a pharmacists assistant, and he was a lot more confident of the drug. Besides, they'd tried it out a few times on their thirteen year old crack whore, and then being cautious, they'd even experimented on a healthy young stripper of approximately Linsey's height and weight. They knew their way around.

�We stick with the plan,� Mike demanded. The others, one by one, folded.

They made their way into the bedroom, turning on the light. She didn't react. For a few seconds, they stared at her nude form, spread out on the bed. She was still wearing her white garterbelt with white stockings that they'd had her wear for their cyber play. She'd been too tired to strip it off. The garters on one leg had let go and the stocking, on its own, had rolled half down her thigh.

�Fucking beautiful,� Zacc whispered. �Just fucking awesome.� He reached out to cup one naked breast, feeling the warm flesh. Ian slid his hand up her thigh, brushing fingertips against her pussy.

She slept, snoring softly. Mike took out his digital camera and began snapping some pictures. Something to compromise the bitch. He took a basic set of half a dozen, he didn't want to use them all up too quickly. He tried for angles that exposed her charms without really making it obvious that she was sleeping.

�Next step?� They nodded. Very gently, they rolled her over onto her stomach, slipping a pillow under her belly so that her ass was elevated. They pulled her legs apart, fixed the loose stocking back to her garter.

Her pink virginal asshole winked up at them, perching above the smooth folds of her pubes and labia.

�Man,� Zacc said, �I'd love to slam that right now.�

A few more pictures were snapped. Linsey had no secrets left. Mike knelt behind her and ran his fingertip lightly up and down her cunt until her lips parted and her clit swelled. As he began to feel wetness, her hips rolled slowly, but she didn't wake. Then they moved her, posing her again, propping her in nastily pornographic poses. Ian and Zacc took off their pants, their bodies moving into frame. Mike snapped more pictures, apparently of scenes of a threesome.

Linsey's mouth yawned open.

�I gotta do this,� Ian whispered. He straddled her face.

�Not yet,� Mike hissed.

�Fuck that,� Ian said. Balancing over her, he slid his cock into her open mouth, letting the head rest against her tongue. He winced. Oh man, it was all he could do not to throat fuck the bitch.

�Hold it there,� Mike ordered, quickly snapping more pictures.

�I'm going to come,� Ian grunted. There was no blow job, the head of his cock was simply resting in her slack mouth. But knowing he could have this bitch, it made his load want to explode.

�Don't! Not in her mouth! In your hand, we don't want to leave any traces yet!�

�Not in her mouth!� Zacc snarled.

With his remaining self control, Ian pulled his cock back, and it splurged its load all over her face.

A drop or two of semen fell down her throat. Linsey coughed once, body shifting restlessly. They froze, waiting.

Then she licked her lips, seemed to stretch and went back to snoring.

�Close call,� Mike said.

�Look at the jizz on her face,� Zacc said. �Mike you gotta get some more pictures of that.�

Lynsey seemed to smile angelically, as Mike photographed the semen oozing down her cheeks. She looked like a complete slut. Then, when the pictures were over, Mike got a soft damp tissues and carefully cleaned her face. It wouldn't do for her to wake up in the morning with her face smeared with powdery dried sperm.

When he came back from disposing of the tissues. Mike found Zacc straddling her, preparing to come all over her tits. So he took some pictures of that, and of her come drenched nipples.

They had gone as far as they could go.

Mike looked at his friends.

�You know,� he said, �we could just take what we got and go. Waking her might be risky, want to take the chance?�

Ian was already hard again. �Go the distance, good buddy.�

Zacc nodded.

�Okay,� he waved them back, so that they would be out of Lynsey's field of view. He sat carefully down on the bed and played with her cunt. They'd been fingering her lightly off and on through the photo session, and she was now genuinely wet. Still unconscious, her body showed all the signs of arousal, hard nipples, wet pussy, parting lips.

It was part of the plan. Under the drug, she wouldn't wake to full consciousness, but if she roused to sexual arousal. She would be. Pliable for certain things. Docile. Even willing. Or so they had found with their experiments with the crack whore and the stripper.



�Lynsey,� a voice whispered in her ear, a soft gentle voice, but urgent, �Lynsey.�

A hand on her shoulder gently rocked her. She rolled a little, her eyelids fluttering. Before she was aware of anything else, she knew she was horny. A wetness pulsed insistently between her legs. She dragged her hand roughly between her thighs.

�Lynsey,� the voice insisted, �Lynsey, are you there?�

�Whuz.� she slurred, �whuzzat?�

Her eyes blinked slowly. There was someone there with her. Her vision was blurry. She couldn't make out his face, it was just black. That wasn't right. She frowned and tried to squint.

�It's okay Lynsey,� the voice said, it was soft and warm and comforting. He stroked her shoulder. �It's okay Lynsey, relax, we're friends.�

Friends? She couldn't think clearly, too sleepy. Friends. It was okay then. Lynsey tried to turn to go back to sleep, stroking her cunt absently. Come and then sleep. Or sleep and then come.

�Lynsey,� the voice insisted, dragging her back to her half wakefulness. A hand, not her own, pressed between her legs, her thighs parted with a will of her own, and she purred. �Lynsey, do you want to have a little fun with your friend.�

Fun?

She was so wet. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't seem to see, but she felt soooo good, like a cat sunning itself on a rock.

�Lynsey,� the voice called again, rousing her. �Smile for the camera. That's a good girl.�

Camera? Over there. She smiled. �Good girl.� The voice was happy with her, that made her happy.

�Lick your nipple,� the voice had to repeat two or three times before she understood. Gentle hands helped her to stand. She reached down and licked it. �Good girl,� the voice stroked her, she wanted to be a good girl, she was happy that the voice was happy. �Smile.� She grinned woozily. �Lick it again.�

�Spread your cunt lips for the camera.� There it was, she smiled blearily, as her hands were guided down. Someone helped her sit up in position. �That's so sexy. You're a sexy girl aren't you.�

Oh she was sooo wet. She would love to get fucked, her fingers clumsily pushed at her clit.

�Open your mouth, Linsey.� There was a cock in front of her. She blinked. �You like cock, don't you Linsey.� She did? �Yes, you love it.� She nodded vaguely. �You want to suck this cock.� She did. �Go ahead, put it in your mouth.� Someone's fingers were in her cunt, making her wetter, and suddenly, she wanted that cock in her mouth. She bent forward, slobbering.

She lost track of things. When she focused again, there were two cocks in front of her, she was stroking them both, smiling for the camera, listening vaguely to the click. Click, click, click. Funny camera.

Eventually, she found herself laying back down. The voice whispering in her ear, hands stroking her body. �Good girl, Linsey, good girl, sleep now.� She was so drowsy.

A moment later, she was snoring softly. Her abusers watched carefully for a few minutes, then they carefully withdrew to share their new prizes with the gang.



A lot of the pictures, more than half of them, were useless. Lynsey was too obviously asleep, or too obviously stoned in them, her eyes mostly glassy and lidded.

But there was a picture of her staring at the camera with a slick grin as she worked a small vibrator in her cunt. Another close up of her face with a cock in her mouth where her drug induced bleariness seemed like ecstatic rapture. In some pictures, the slackness of the drug looked like lust or hunger, a sleazy heavy lidded alertness.

Only Lynsey's face was visible in the pictures. The men were seen only by their cocks their bodies. Even in one shot, an apparent (but not real, they had yet to penetrate her) depiction of a double penetration, Linsey's face and form was clearly visible, laughing and moaning sandwiched between two male bodies, their hands on her breasts and ass, but somehow, the photograph left out her lovers heads.



Lynsey woke up with no memory whatsoever of the night's adventure. To her, it simply hadn't happened, the memories had failed to form, it wasn't even a dream.

But she felt terrible. Her mouth tasted like a hangover, and her head pounded. She felt fuzzy and listless and out of sorts. She kept forgetting what she was doing. After an hour of fumbling, she decided she just couldn't handle going to work. Obviously, she was sick or something, best to take the day off.

She sat back, relaxed, watched some television. After a while, she felt a bit better. Perhaps she'd go into work in the afternoon. She signed onto chat, played a little bit, revealed the name of her college. She had some more orange juice, and some time after that, started to feel drowsy. In an hour, she was back in bed.

Chuck was calling Mike to see if they would take advantage of this. They hadn't expected another crack at her for at least a night or two. Of course, they did.



Pictures mounted up, of Linsey in different poses, dressed in different combinations of lingerie and slutware. They got bolder, dragging her around her own apartment, making sure always that her surroundings were visible, but the occasional cocks and male bodies in the frame with her, were obscured.

One night, she blearily found herself looking the pussy of a thirteen year old crack whore, cleaned up and made up to look childlike. The crack whore was as drugged out as Lynsey herself, neither enjoyed it much as they blearily stumbled and crawled over each other. Neither remembered a thing about it. But the group came away with a handful of very incriminating pedophile photos.

Their crowning achievement, however, was a couple of nights later, when after careful coaxing, a laughing, confused, dazed Lynsey was slowly and carefully coaxed, without truly understanding what she was doing, into putting her mouth around the hard erect cock of Chuck's german shepherd, Steve.

Lynsey, of course, had no idea of any of this. The strange �flu' that had struck her and left her sleepy and listless slowly passed. Feeling more like herself, she returned to work and spent her evenings playing on the computer, masturbating to shivering orgasms, and dressing, without fully realizing it, more and more slutty. Her wardrobe now permanently rode the bare margins of acceptability at work, and outside work, well, she became even raunchier. Not completely skanky, she had her limits that she would not pass.

But they had steadily worked on her, pushing her out to those limits, pushing her to her personal edges, until she was at the precipice, at every point gone as far as she was willing, at the limits of her tolerance. She would not voluntarily go further, they knew that.

It was finally time.



The Lynsey Project had gathered at a restaurant again. The champagne flowed freely as they toasted each other. At some point, it had all taken on a life of its own. It wasn't about fucking a slut, or even a rape. Lynsey's game had become a contest, a quest, something that had brought them together and become more than just the pursuit of a fuck, no matter how nasty.

Unlike other gatherings, there would be no slaking of brutal lusts on the helpless body of an increasingly battered thirteen year old crack whore. It was finally time.

Mike tapped his glass. �Gentlemen,� he said, �after all our hard work, the long hours, the sacrifices.� chuckling all around at that, �it's finally time. Now, we all know what comes next, but the question is who comes next. Well, there's only one fair way to decide.�

He held out a fistful of straws, and one by one, they drew.



Lynsey wasn't expecting it when it happened. She was going to work in the morning, a little early, but not unusually so. She was cutting through a commercial parkade, as she usually did. The lot was mostly full, early morning commuters had packed it. She hardly thought twice about cutting through it.

Abruptly, just as she passed the stairwell, a canvas hood slammed down over her head. She put up a hand to fend it. The drawstring of the hood pulled tight across her jaws, effectively gagging her, leaving the lower half of her jaw free while blinding. She tried to shriek through the hood, her arms flailing, struggling to tear it off.

A brutal punch into her solar plexus knocked the wind out of her, and she would have folded up, except for the male arms that folded around her and dragged her into the stairwell. As she struggled to catch her breath, she was slammed up against the concrete wall, the drawstring of the hood was quickly tied into a tight knot. Rough hands tore away her purse, and for a second, she thought it was a mugging, glad that they were taking her purse because it meant he'd go away.

Then she felt strong hands tearing at her blouse, ripping her bra open to squeeze and mangle her breasts. Her skirt was pulled up so harshly she heard the fabric tear. In blind panic, she tried to fight, but only had her head smashed against the concrete, the sharpness of the blow only slightly blunted by the hood.

Abruptly, she found herself dragged down the stairs. Stumbling, almost twisting her ankle, she struggled now to keep some balance as her captor dragged her down. A door burst open, she was shoved through. Her assailant guided her floundering, pushing her to the left and back, and then she was slammed facedown across the hood of some car. She could taste automobile dust and grit on its unwashed surface.

Her captor was behind her. As she caught her breath, she knew what was going to happen to her, what he intended. Terror washed through her. What did the police say? Don't resist? She felt helpless, for the first time in her life, things were completely out of control, and she didn't know what to do. Fight? What if he beat her savagely?

He seemed to be pausing, watching her, waiting to see what she would do. Options shivered through her mind. Fighting was out. Running was out.

He reached down her legs, she cringed at his touch, but didn't move. Almost gently, the assailant lifted her skirt, pulling it up her legs, pushing it up her ass until it was gathered around her hips. She gasped and chewed her lip, her fists clenching.

Strong hands wound themselves into the crotch of her panties, the feel of rough knuckles against her vagina making her grunt. A moment of tearing cloth and the frail fabric, her last defense was gone.

Lynsey blinked inside her hood, seeing only blackness. Senses sharpened by fear and blindness registered the way he stepped close to her. The sound of his zipper being slowly undone. She was aware of a moment's fumbling. Hands pawing at her. Denim pressing against her bared thighs.

The rapists big hard cock slid smoothly into her cunt, making her groan. She had no idea, until his cock touched her lips, that she was so wet. Her body's lubrication had been completely involuntary, as was the wave of pleasure that surged up her hips as his cock thrust into her. She heard a low chuckle, and knew that he was registering her wetness. Horribly, Lynsey knew that he believed she was liking this. It was a nightmare. As his cock set up a brutal rhythm slamming her harshly again and again against the fender of the car, rubbing her clothes and flesh into the cars grime, her clit throbbed and her cunt spasmed, and she grunted in time to the increasing brutality of his thusts.

Her rapist finally finished with a series of brutal violent thrusts that left her thighs bruised against the unyielding metal of the car. As he came, he pushed his cock painfully deep and held it there, flattening her against the hood as he poured his last drop of semen into the waiting condom. She no longer even dreamed of resistance, she simply waited for it to be over. After a few minutes rest, he stepped back, his deflating cock falling out of her soiled cunt. He stepped back, tucked himself away, and then bent over her, undoing the tie on her hood and pulling it away. She kept her eyes shut, knowing enough not to look. A few footsteps, the sound of a door, and he was gone.

Lynsey stayed where she was for a few more minutes, afraid he might come back, afraid he might be standing only a few feet away, watching, waiting for her to make a mistake, to invite a beating or further raping. Gradually, she realized he was really gone. But still, she couldn't quite move. She'd been raped. Had she really come?



Lynsey staggered home and called in sick. Her office was not surprised, this was par for the course for her these days, inappropriate clothes at the office, unexplained and excessive sick days, a poor attitude. She was on thinner ice than she realized.

Lynsey spent the rest of the day putting herself together and trying to figure out what had happened to her. Had she been raped? Of course she had, she must have been raped, there was no other description? But she had reached orgasm, that seemed so incompatible. The come made her disorientation all the more traumatic. Should she call the cops? That was her first impulse, but as she thought it over, she had nothing to give them. There was no evidence. She couldn't describe her assailant in any way, black, white, tall, short. She couldn't prove anything more than that she'd had sex in the parkade. What if they thought it was consensual and she was just angry with her lover, or playing some kind of game? What if they thought she was a slut? The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that going to the police was a bad idea.

There was a bad moment, when it occurred to her that this might somehow be connected to the internet game she was playing. Had one of them actually tracked her down? Impossible! Still, the thought made her nervous, she signed on trying to find some sign of gloating, some indication that there was a real predator in her chatroom. Nothing.

Was it all just a coincidence then? A complete, out of the blue, fluke. A random event that had nothing to do with her life, something meaningless and transient, and therefore without consequences. So it might just as well be that she never got raped, she never came, nothing happened, move along.

In a week, she'd just about convinced herself. She forced her life back to normal, even played her dirty games on the internet where it was safe and she could always log off. The only change in her life was that her wardrobe became more conservative. No more slutting around in public. After all, why take chances?



�Hey,� the man said, �don't I know you?�

Lynsey flinched a little. Since the rape, she'd become a little shy in public, less willing to talk to strangers, especially men.

�I don't think so.�

The man wouldn't let it go.

�I'm pretty sure I do. You look familiar.� He turned to his companion, �Don't she look familiar.�

He stepped closer to her. She watched him warily.

�I really don't think.�

�Working girl,� he snapped his fingers.

�What?�

�You're one of the working girls, down on the stroll. I knew I'd seen you around.�

�You're mistaken.�

�On the skytrain, I'd see you all the time. You were something hot. I remember that one time, you were wearing this tiny bikini top, and this little miniskirt.�

Lynsey blushed bright red. She remembered that outfit, remembered wearing it on the skytrain. Oh god, she thought, he must have really seen me there. He thinks I'm a whore.

�Oh man, you gave me such a boner. I always wanted to give you a good pounding, ain't that right, didn't I say that?� He asked his companion. The bigger man nodded quietly, seemingly only half interested.

�There must be a some mistake,� she said, not very convincingly.

�Look at that blush,� he said, �yeah honey, its you. I don't forget a nice set of tits.�

All at once, a thought seemed to hit him, he became almost apologetic.

�But hey, am I bothering you? Sorry,� he said.

�Well, yes. You see.�

�Oh, you got a client?�

�A client?� Then she realized he was asking if she was going out to turn a trick, to have sex for money. �Oh, no. No client.�

�No? Well, honey, it's your lucky day. You got one now.� He stepped in and put his arm around her waist, pulling and guiding her out of the stream of pedestrian traffic. The gesture flustered her, and for a second, she was speechless.

�What? No wait. I mean.�

�Not to worry babe,� the man said, �I got cash on hand, this is a COD transaction, I promise. Don't let money worry you.�

She tried to pull away, but his arm around her hip held her fast. His companion was on the other side of her now, hemming her in. There seemed no choice but to walk the way they were leading her.

�No, that's not it,� she said, �the thing is.�

�Thirty bucks,� he said, �that's the going rate the streets you work.�

�Thirty?� She'd never thought it would be so cheap.

�Here,� he said, �let me carry that for you.�

He slipped her purse off her shoulder.

�Wait,� she said, reaching for it.

�Ian,� the man said, handing the purse out of reach, �be a gentleman for once, carry the ladies things.�

They ignored her ineffectual pleadings. Instead, the man who'd captured her kept up a stream of patter.

�My name is Peter by the way. What's yours. What. Well, suit yourself, most girls don't give their real name, but you know, a �stage' name is good for business. So how long you been fucking. Hey, Ian, listen to this, what a kidder. I bet she tells us she's a virgin. Not a virgin? I'm not surprised. Hey, I don't mean nothing by it.�

Abruptly, she realized that there were no people around. They'd led her out of the pedestrian traffic down this empty alley. She felt helpless and vulnerable, frightened.

The alley turned a corner, they lead her into a little cul de sac, sheltered by a dumpster. She walked on legs that felt like water. It was oddly dreamlike, try as she might, she couldn't seem to walk away.

�Well,� Peter said, shoving a couple of bills into her purse, �here we are. It ain't the ritz, but I'm sure that you've done worse in nastier, or vice versa.�

Ian laughed at the casual contemptuousness of it, laughed at her stricken expression. �Let's get down to business.�

Too late, Lynsey found her courage.

�No,� she said.

�No?� Peter asked. �No?� Ian said, �You want to go somewhere else?�

�No, I've. I've changed my mind. I'm not going to do it. I want to go.�

Out of nowhere Peter backhanded her, half her face went all pins and needles, her jaw rocked and she was slammed up against the brick wall.

�You fucking cock tease!� Peter snarled. �You took the fucking money, now you are going to walk away.�

�The money?� She remembered the money they'd shoved in her purse. �No, that's not it,� she burbled, � you can have the money, I don't want it.�

Peter backhanded her again.

�My money's not good enough for you?� He snapped. She blinked.

�No, that's not it, it's just.�

�Just what? You figured you'd just take our fucking money and walk, is that it?�

�No, I just don't want to.�

�Why'd you come on to us bitch?� Peter yelled at her.

Come on to them? Lynsey was dissolving in confusion, she hadn't come on to them, had she? She wasn't sure. They were saying she did. This was all a horrible misunderstanding. She had to make them understand.

�Please,� she whimpered, �I didn't mean to. I didn't want to come on to you, I'm sorry.�

�I'm not good enough for you?� Peter glanced at Ian, an expression of astonishment writ on his face. �Listen to this, this two-bit slag is too good for us.�

His body tensed, fist clenching. Lynsey quailed with terror. Peter pushed her hard against the wall, his fist cocked. She whimpered.

�Are you saying you are too good to fuck us, is that what you are saying?�

�No,� Lynsey squeaked.

Peter paused, still looking mean.

�No what?�

�No.� Lynsey felt her way through it, �I'm not too good to fuck you.�

�Fuck us both?�

�I'm not too good to fuck you both.�

�You came on to us?�

�I'm sorry I came on to you.�

�You took the money.�

�Yes.�

Peter let go, abruptly, Lynsey stumbled, struggling to keep her balance on legs that felt like water. She was shaking. Horribly, she was aware her panties were soaked. That she could have a reaction like that in a situation like this appalled her.

�So,� Peter winked at Ian, before turning back to her, �what's the problem?�

Trapped in the alley, cornered by his words and her own fear, Lynsey did the only thing she could.

�No problem,� she whispered, her throat dry. �No problem.�

She surrendered.

Peter and Ian grinned.

�Excellent,� Peter said. �Now we're communicating. I believe in communication, don't you? Well, the money has changed hands, the meeting of the minds is achieved, nothing to do now but the nasty. So what's your name slut?�

�My name.�

�Fuck, nice tits, but you're kind of retarded. Check her purse Ian.�

�L. Lynn! My name is Lynn!�

�Lynn?� Peter sounded it out. �That's a nice slutty name? You feeling slutty, Lynn?�

She hesitated, knowing there was no way out, before finally conceding, �Yes.�

�That's great! See, Ian, I can spot sluts. She's just aching to go, can you smell her cunt? Yeah, she's ready. So slut, show us what we bought?�

�What?� Lynsey couldn't get her head around his words. Show?

A flicker of terrifying irritation showed on his face.

�Put on a show, you dumb fucking slag! Do I have to smash your face? Show us your fucking tits.�

Quickly, with badly shaking hands, Lynsey tore at her jacket top. Unable to manipulate a button, she simply tore it off, opening the jacket and then undoing the blouse with hasty motions. She pushed her bra up over her breasts.

�Nice titties,� Peter said, coming close. �Hey, you know what gets me hot, seeing a slut bite and suck her nipples. Bite and suck them, bitch.�

She did as she was told, her teeth tearing into her sensitive flesh.

�Look at her go,� Ian said. �She's a hot one all right.�

�Yeah she is,� Peter replied. �Dance around a bit, bitch, do a striptease for your paying customers. Touch yourself a lot, make it a show.�

Clumsily, she began dancing for them, undoing her clothes awkwardly, trying to climb out of them. Her eyes moist.

�Smile bitch, act like you're liking it.�

Lynsey smiled, working the skirt down over her hips. It pooled around her ankles and she stepped out of it, remembering to shimmy.

�Show us your ass.�

She turned, rolling her ass cheeks. Not looking at them was easier, she clutched her breasts and stared at the brick wall. A harsh voice intruded on her.

�Hook your thumbs into those panties,� it ordered, �roll it down really slow.�

She did as she was ordered, working the panties down her thighs. She knew as she bent over that they could see her pussy. They jammed around her knees, and she had to bend even lower to let them slide past her calves. A cold breeze slid around her thighs as she realized that she was bottomless, she had exposed herself for them, without even a trace of resistance. She hated herself, hated her submission. A tear rolled down her cheek.

�Fucking dance, Bitch!� A voice snapped her reverie. She jumped and began to wiggle her ass.

As she performed, Peter asked Ian, �So, how you want to do it? One at a time, or two on one. Two on one is faster.�

�I dunno,� Ian said. �Fast is best, I suppose.�

�Cool, which end you want? Keep dancing bitch, show us your pussy.�

�Look at that: Shaved! She's really a fucking whore, isn't she? I dunno, fucking her mouth I suppose, probably tighter than her pussy.�

Another tear trickled down Lynsey's cheek.

�Sounds good, I'll pound that shaved slit. I don't want to catch anything, get us a couple of rubbers out of her purse.�

She was shocked into stillness when Ian simply upended the contents of her purse out onto the filthy ashpalt.

�Keep fucking dancing you stupid cunt,� Peter yelled. She jumped and started shaking her ass again.

�No rubbers.�

�Stupid skank.�

�No big deal, I got one, you can use it.�

�You're a buddy! What about you?�

�No big deal, I'll just shoot my load down her throat.�

�Good enough, showtime! Down on all fours, slag.�

Lynsey crouched down, unwilling to fully prostrate herself. Ian grabbed her soft lanky blond hair and yanked her to her knees, forcing her head down. His pants were stained, she could smell his crotch, thick with the odour of sour urine.

Peter kneeled behind her.

�Oh man, you should feel this,� as he rudely used his fingers to violate her cunt. �Bitch is fucking dripping. I bet she likes it a little rough, gets her going really good.�

Lynsey could only mew as his fingers painfully manipulated her towards orgasm.

�Please,� she whimpered.

�Please what,� Peter asked, pushing his fingers hard against her clit.

Lynsey's answer was lost in an inarticulate howl as the orgasm hit her. She lost muscle control, collapsing on the filthy garbage strewn alley. Over her, she heard Peter and Ian chuckling and felt shame.

They let her rest a moment, and then pulled her into position. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the slimy dirt strewn concrete. Bits and pieces of stone bit into her knees. Peter held her ass, and shoved his cock brutally into her cunt, fucking without finesse. She gasped as she felt his hardness surge into her, for a second, her breath caught and her mouth gaped open with his fucking, gulping like a fish. Ian, after a second, wrapped his fingers in her hair and started throat fucking her. His grip on her hair was tight and painful, the odour of his crotch filled her nostrils, and his hard rod stabbed and tore at the back of her throat. Between them, Lynsey gagged, her body heaving, but she was trapped and helpless.

The harsh fucking went on and on. They forced another orgasm from her body before Peter came. Ian brutally used her throat before shooting his load, refusing to release her until she swallowed every drop.

�Oh gee,� Peter said, as she lay gasping, prostrate on the pave. �Damn, looks like we ruined your clothes. Sorry bitch.�

Lynsey turned her head. Her expensive, conservative skirt and blouse and jacket was now smeared with dirt, torn, soiled with urine. Peter shook his cock off, and tucked it away.

�I feel bad,� he announced.

�S'okay,� Lynsey said dully. She just wanted it to be over.

�Nah,� Peter said, �you can't go around like that. Tell you what, you stay with my friend here, and I'll go get you something to wear. There's a value village right by.�

He walked off. Lynsey looked up at the remaining man, Ian, hoping for more mercy.

Ian grinned down at her. His cock hung loose and lanky from his pants. He reached down and loosed a stream of pure urine that landed mere inches from her face. Lynsey flinched away.

�You know what?� he said. �I think you'd look real good, licking my boots with your tongue.�

Beaten, without a shred of hope or resistance in her. Lynsey crawled forward. When she reached him, she looked up a final time, hoping for a shred of compassion. There wasn't any.

She stuck her tongue out and ran it along the leather toe of his boot. It was dirty, she could feel the dirt, the grit on her tongue. It had a taste like mud.

�That's it,� he said, �put your tongue into it.�

She lapped at the boot, her tongue working away the grit, smoothing the leather. She wanted to vomit, but instead, she obediently licked away, sticking her tongue out and giving the filthy boots long wet licks. Once in a while, she dared to look up at him, and then glanced quickly away at the cruelty she saw in his eyes. Her tongue stained brown, it tasted foul, but she still licked. There were small boot smears all around her lips. His boots started to shine with her spit.

She was still licking his boots when Peter came back.

�Got something,� he announced cheerfully, dumping the contents of a bag at her feet. She stared at the cheap, gaudily covered rags.

The clothes turned out to be a short, tight sequinned dress, half the sequins fallen away, undersized, with a rip in the side. It was strapless, and it kept slipping down, exposing her nipples. But pulling it up exposed her ass. There were a pair of dirty white stockings that went with it. She looked like a very cheap hooker.

They stayed with her, making sure she applied make up. Then Peter left. Ian walked her to the skytrain, accompanied her on it. She felt a bottomless shame as the other passengers got on and saw her, trashy make up, revealing slut dress, dirty, filthy, smelly, hair disheveled. She'd become one of those worn slags that she used to watch. Passengers got on and off, she came to her stop, but when she tried to get up, Ian shook his head. She sat, still imprisoned by their domination of her will. They rode the skytrain to the end of the line and back, and finally Ian let her off one stop away from her destination.

Finally freed, she reached the street and searched her purse for change and money to call a cab. But her purse was only full of cheap make up, some scattered ID, and condoms both new and used.

It was an hour and a half of walking, and one tortuous hitchike before she finally made it home. She drew a hot bath and crawled in, soothing her aching body, gently washing the grit from her knees and palms. Eventually, she eased herself into bed and laid there staring at the ceiling for half an hour before the tears came, and she sobbed herself to sleep.



She didn't go to work for the next few days. Instead, she stayed in her apartment. Again, she thought of calling the police. But it was only a faint idea, she was terrified that the police would interpret it as an act of prostitution. What if they didn't care? What if they blamed her? She simply couldn't take that chance. Alone, she could deal with it, but she couldn't deal with what they might think of her.

She couldn't believe how easily it had happened, how easily she'd been lead to it, how little resistance she had offered. She stared at herself in the mirror, trying to understand how she had been such a pushover.

It had seemed to her then, and now, that it had all been inevitable, that each step had lead inexorably to the next, with no way off and no way out. It disturbed her that she had responded so strongly when it happened. It disturbed her that she involuntarily became wet thinking about it.

For a while, her life derailed. But circumstances have their own demands. She had to leave the apartment to go to work, to buy food, to pay bills. Her trips outside the apartment were now furtive expeditions. Four days later, it happened again.

She was walking down the street when a car pulled up beside her. She glanced at it warily, now almost uniformly suspicious.

�Hey,� Jack said.

Lynsey stared at the barrel of the pistol pointing at her, frozen.

�Get in the car,� Jack ordered. �Back door, driver's side.�

Terrified, she stepped to the curb, opened the back door, and slid in. Her eyes never left the pistol.

�Shut the door.�

As the door slammed shut, Jack swivelled around. There was an instant when the pistol wasn't pointed at her. She was frozen.

�Look down,� Jack instructed.

She tore her gaze away from the barrel of the gun. Down at her feet were two pairs of handcuffs.

�You see them? Good. Now, I want you to take your shoes off, I want you barefoot. Got that? Good. Now, next, I want you to put the cuffs around your ankles. No, it doesn't matter which set. There you go. Good girl. Now, put the other pair of cuffs around your wrists. There you go�

Jack smiled. She was almost completely compliant, with only bare hesitations. Why was that, he wondered? All that subliminal training in obedience on the net? Or the softening up of the others? He didn't care, this was his turn.

�Now, I want you to lay down. No, not on the seat. I want you to lay face down in the foot area in front of the seat. No, bend your knees, your legs can stick straight up. Work yourself a little forward. That's it.�

Once she was wedged in, he covered her over with a blanket. And then, whistling tunelessly, he put the car back in gear and started driving.

Lynsey's face was pressed into the harsh artificial carpet in the passenger wells. The transmission hump raised her hips. She barely had any leverage. As he whistled, she could hear street noises outside. She knew he hadn't shut the window.

He hadn't gagged her. All she had to do was shout. She fantasized him pulling up to a policecar, and her giving out a piercing scream. Perhaps heaving up enough to open the door, tumble out, and go hopping away, shouting for help. A million scenarios of rescue and escape rolled through her head, all beginning with a scream, a cry for help.

Not a peep escaped her lips. She was too frightened to utter a sound.

Instead, she just laid there, staring at the carpet, hating herself for her weakness and her fear. While the car drove and drove, turned right and then left, paused and accelerated.

Jack drove carefully. The last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. Get stopped by the cops, and the whole thing would be up. His route home was direct, but not reckless. Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when he finally arrived at his house.

He activated the door opener for the attached garage. Once he was inside, he could get her into the house, into the basement, without anyone seeing her. He'd often taken whores into his house that way, and once in a while, a semi-unwilling victim.

He chuckled, imagining the look on her face when she saw his basement.

He pulled in, waited for the door to shut, and then cut the engine. Then, he stepped out, straightened his jacket, and walked with deceptive calmness to the passenger side back door.

The bitch was finally his. He'd seen her naked in photographs, watched her shower and masturbate on computer cam, he'd even fondled and posed her semi-conscious body. But this was different. Finally, he had her in his unfettered, unlimited possession. He ached to put some marks on her.

He opened the door and pulled her out, gratified by the way she struggled forward, as if to help him.

�Please,� she whimpered. �Don't do this. I can't take it.�

Her eyes were full of tears. He ignored them and plunged his hand into her top, roughly mauling one breast. Finding an already hard nipple, he twisted it savagely, stopping her whining and causing her to draw a terrified breath.

�Slut,� he said easily. �All the way over here, you could have screamed, and you didn't. Even now, you don't make a peep. You want this.�

From the way she blushed, he knew he had scored a point. What the hell, maybe she really did want it. He didn't care. What she wanted didn't matter. The only thing that mattered, as she was going to find out, was what he wanted.

For a while, he amused himself fondling her stiff but unresisting body. He exposed her breasts and pawed them, raking fingernails down to leave red marks. He pushed her slacks down to her ankles and caressed the smooth flesh of her thighs, probed the wet folds of her cunt.

Cuffed at wrists and ankles, she had no choice but to take it, to accept the indignities he inflicted upon her. She could only precariously try to keep her balance.

Finally, he uncuffed her ankles, allowing her to walk.

�Follow me,� he said, brandishing the gun. She followed willingly, he was amused that he didn't even have to drag her. She walked into the house, followed him awkwardly down the stairs. He'd left one cuff at her ankle to flop loosely around.

She caught only a glimpse of the house from the corner of her eye, as she descended the stairs. Down there, it was a full scale dungeon, with gray concrete walls, wooden pillars, a sloping floor with a drain in the center and a chain link fence section dividing it. Lynsey stopped, overcome with a powerful urge to flee.

A hard shove propelled her forward, she stumbled, almost falling, staggering to the center of the room. She almost fell over, but he was right behind her, pulling her ass into his hips. Grabbing her hair, he yanked her upright, then lifted her cuffed hands quickly, setting them into a hook hanging from a cord in the ceiling. It all happened so fast, Lynsey barely registered the hook clamping shut on her handcuff chain. And then he pulled the rope tight, and she found herself jerked up onto her toes, dangling from the hook, her body almost suspended. She twisted on her toes.

Jack walked in front of her, she wouldn't meet his eyes. He grabbed her hair and slapped her face twice, the sound of his hand on her flesh, the stinging in his palm, made his cock leap.

�Look at me,� he ordered.

She looked, eyes wide with terror. She was panting, slightly flushed. He slid his hand into her blouse, pulling her breast out, pleased to note the hardness in her nipples.

�Are you afraid,� he said.

She swallowed. A dry sound died in her throat, and she nodded quickly, never taking her eyes off him. Perfect, he thought. Man, he was going to pound this bitch.

�Here's how it works,� he told her, �you do exactly as you are told, exactly. You do every fucking thing you're told, and you do it like you like it. And maybe it doesn't get any worse. Fuck around. And I guarantee it will get worse, a lot worse. Worse than you can imagine.�

He laughed. Enjoying the surge of fear, the way she struggled to catch a breath. Oh he might do her again, he thought, but never again like this. This was too perfect.

He wondered if she was dripping. He wondered if he reached below, he'd find her thighs slick. If he reached a little higher, her panties soaking. Reach in, and feel soft pliable wetness.

�Understand?� He slapped her again.

She nodded desperately, finally choking out a �y. Y. Yes!�

He smiled benignly. More than any of the others, Jack was a genuine sadist. He truly liked to inflict pain. His partner in agony was a sexual thrill for him. For others, it was the rape, the conquest, the degradation, the punishment. He respected all that. He just liked to make it hurt.

Fortunately or unfortunately for Lynsey, their agreement meant that he couldn't take her completely apart, the way he did with some of his victims. No real scars, no massive bruises. But that still left a lot to work with. And, fortunately or unfortunately for Lynsey, he was well acquainted with the techniques for forcing orgasms from bodies in agony.

�Well then, just relax, we're going to have a lot of fun. Hell, if you keep the rule in mind, you'll even enjoy some of it.�

He stepped around her, enjoying the way she dangled from the hook. It was just slightly too high, leaving her perpetually wobbling on tip toes. He fondled her breasts through the fabric of her clothes, making her wince as he found and pinched her nipples. His hands traveled down her blouse settling around her hips. He swung her around, she was so delicately balanced that she couldn't resist the simple pressure. For a while, he busied himself caressing her ass, working her skirt up her thighs until the two pale globes were exposed.

He slapped them hard, shoving her until she lost her balance and swung free for a second, dangling from her stretched arms, until she could again find her balance on tiptoes.

�You like it, don't you,� he said, and ripped her blouse open, glorying in the sound of buttons popping, fabric tearing. The violence of the act made her squeal in fear. He reached between her breasts, pulling the bra out. Her breasts were squashed up and forward, the bra straps cutting into her flesh, she grunted with discomfort. Then the clasp snapped and the bra flopped open, exposing her heaving breasts and hard nipples.

Lynsey was panting harshly, partly fear, Jack thought, partly lust. The signs of involuntary arousal were all over her body. He stepped around behind, amused when she tried to tip toe away, to escape him.

�You can't go anywhere, bitch,� he laughed, and amused himself slapping her body, provoking squeals and whimpers. Then he reached down to the hem of her skirt, grasped firmly and pulled. The fabric tore with a ripping sound all the way up to the waist, where the heavy stitching held. He worked his fingers into the wasteband and pulled, yanking her off balance and making her shriek. Another savage yank and the ruined skirt was gone.

He swung her around, her wrists twisting painfully. She was now half naked, only scraps of fabric clinging to her arms and shoulders. Her naked breasts were heaving, her bare legs shivering as she struggled to maintain herself on tiptoes of bare feet.

�Please,� she whimpered, �I'm begging.�

�You don't have to beg for it,� he assured her, �I'm happy to do it.�

His fingers slid down between her legs, exploring her satin panties with an uncharacteristic gentle fluttering touch. He traced the outlines of her labia through her panties, noting the signs of wetness permeating the fabric. He loosely cupped her pubic mound.

�Mmmm nice panties,� he said, �you've got good taste.�

His fingers slowly gathered the fabric at her pubic mound, pulling the central strip between her legs into a narrow cloth band. He wrapped it in his fist, twisting until it was a harsh strip of cloth stretched tight between her labia, spreading her lips open and abrading her clit. He pulled higher, she seemed to go further up on tip toes, wincing.

�Good fabric, eh,� Jack said, �strong. I like that. Let's see how much it can take.�

Enjoying her whimpering, he pulled the twisted fabric tighter and higher, until she was literally dancing on tip toes. It continued to hold, he pulled higher, giving it little yanks and twists to increase her discomfort. She started begging again, which only made him laugh, and then she started to screech.

Finally, with a sudden whip snap, the fabric let go. Lynsey, released from agony, simply dropped, bouncing on her shoulders.

Jack reached down and started fingering her bared cunt.

�You're wet,� he whispered as she turned her face away, refusing to look at him, trying to blot it all out. He allowed her to squeeze her eyes shut, to try and shut herself off. It wasn't going to work of course. He might slap her, scare her, insist that she make eye contact. But it was much better to invade her through her skin, through her cunt. Try as she might shut him out, she couldn't shut out his fingers now gentle between her legs, massaging her labia, stroking her clit. He bent down to her breast, and rolled his tongue around her nipple, sucking it in and massaging it gently with his mouth, nibbling just enough to ensure the stimulation was inescapable.

His body came close to hers, pressing her to him, bending her to his manly warmth. A free hand snaked around her ass, caressing it. Jack was gentle, letting her fear and distress ebb, replacing it with an odd, unwanted stimulation. When he was sure her sighs had turned completely to pleasure, when she was actually writhing against him, giving herself submissively to his touches, he stopped. Walked away, and turned off the lights, leaving her dangling in the dark, aroused and helpless.

He wanted her to stew a bit. So he went upstairs, made a few phone calls. Leisurely he stripped down, stroking his cock luxuriously. He went into his bedroom, looked through a collection of floggers, belts, tools and clamps. Mostly unnecessary, he already knew what he wanted to do, and had all the right implements already laid out in the basement. But he'd saved his whipping choice until he could gage the quality of her skin.

It wouldn't do to leave her massively bruised or scarred he thought. Not this time. After all, there were two more rapists who would want relatively undamaged goods. They were all in this together, and much as he would have liked to hurt her, he liked his new pals better and had no wish to piss in their pool, as it were.

He chose a big wide belt, with small holes drilled through its business end. Too short to really get whip action going, more than a simple paddle, too wide to really bruise her. It would hurt like hell, he could imagine the way it would make her flesh feel, like splashes full of pins and needles. His cock leaped.

He grabbed the big bowie knife, popped a stick of gum, and headed back downstairs.

The lights came on suddenly, harsh and electric, stinging her eyes and making her blink. She looked up, and there he was in the doorway, grinning, naked, his erection rampant, holding a huge knife in one hand, and a belt in the other. Lynsey started screaming in panic, jumping and dancing on her hook in a hopeless attempt to flee.

�Scared,� he whispered, coming close to her. He held the cold metal of the knife blade against her cheek. Her screams suppressed to blubbering whimpers. For a while, he enjoyed feeling her tremble and jerk as he slid the knife over her body, the tip pressing into her nipples, the flat sliding against her belly, her thighs. Once he drew the dull (not that she knew which edge it was) edge up between her lips, sliding it against her clit. Every now and then, he would cut away a bit more of her remaining clothes until she was completely naked.

�I'm tired of teasing with the the knife,� he whispered in her ear as she shivered. Really, it was just foreplay for him, he liked pain more than terror. �Now, we can do a couple of things. We can get a bit more creative. A little bloodwork? You seem to really respond to the knife, it gets you hot, I can tell. So you may be up for that. Or I can whip you with the belt. What would you like? Your choice?�

Lynsey shivered. �The b. B. Belt.�

�What was that, I didn't hear. Did you say the knife?�

�The belt, the belt!�

�Ahhh, okay. You really want it?�

�Y. Yes.�

Jack smiled. He was going to enjoy this.

�Okay. But only if you really, really want it. You have to want it, or we'll just go back to the knife.�

Lynsey whimpered. Anything was better than the knife, the thought of how much further that might go terrified her.

�The belt.� she whimpered, �I want you to beat me with the belt.�

�Will you push your ass out for the belt? Will you offer up your tits? Dance around and beg for it?�

�Yes! Yes! Yes!�

Jack laughed, folding the belt in his hands. �Okay, but let's not get too out of hand. Only thirty lashes. How's that?�

�Thirty lashes, yes!�

�Good enough, now Lynsey,� he said, �I'm not good at counting, so you'll have to count. I'll trust you, but if I think you've fucked me around, well, I'll just fucking hurt you. And I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your counting to yourself. I find it really distracting, and stupid to hear counting out loud.�

He made Lynsey beg for it. He made her bend on tiptoes, begging him to lay the belt across her up thrust ass, she offered her breasts. Sometimes, he'd have her spread her legs, begging for it across the ass, and then just for the hell of it, snap the belt up between her lets, trying to lash her clit. She screamed and screeched again and again, taking some blows with only a grunt, others with a piglike squeal. He threw off her counting several times.

Finally, around fifty strokes, when he judged she couldn't take any more, around fifty strokes, he let out the rope she was suspended from. Lynsey sagged to her knees, too exhausted even to sob. Her sides heaved as she panted like a dog. Jack let out even more slack, and she eased forward onto knees and elbows, head bowed. Her naked body was shining, the flesh reddened everywhere in streaks and smears, her body dripping with sweat.

She looked perfectly fuckable, Jack thought, with those shivering, J-Low ass cheeks all round and waiting for a cock between them, her blonde hair limp and hanging over her face, nipples brushing the concrete floor. Jack slipped on a pair of kneepads and grabbed his �fun' bottle.

Then he stepped up and knelt behind her, running his hands gently over her trembling ass. He reached down, drawing a finger up her cunt, pleased at her sopping wetness. He'd worked hard to make sure that she stayed wet and ready, to make sure that in all the pain and humiliation, that her body was mechanically stimulated.

�Hey Lynsey,� he said, cupping her cunt, the shock of his touch made her involuntarily push herself onto his hand, �how about a nice fuck, and we call it a day?�

A day? Call it a day? An end to this? Suddenly, a doorway had opened, an escape hatch, and Lynsey, in her desperate exhausted condition saw only a single choice. She leaped for it.

�Yes,� she cried, �yes, yes, fuck me.� Fuck me and call it a day, it would be over.

�Good enough,� Jack grunted. His cock poked at her lips, and she thrust herself back on his cockhead. But he wasn't quite ready yet. Instead, he filled his hands with the liquid from his fun bottle, rubbing it in. Then he grabbed Lynsey's rope, still hooked to her handcuffs, and pulled savagely. Her wrists were drawn painfully back to her shoulder blades, face sliding up against concrete. His free hand, he jammed up against her cunt, massaging it, working the stinging rubbing alcohol/aftershave mix in deep into the tender flesh. Lynsey's scream was earsplitting, the agony unlike anything she had known.

Jack thrust his cock into her wildly spasming cunt, and humped her savagely for a few dozen desperate thrusts, until finally, shooting an explosive load into her defenseless cunt. There was no condom, she realized, she could in her agony, feel his seed invading her.

Jack couldn't care less, he wanted to ride her bareback. He figured she was disease free. If she wasn't, well. He could always cut her nipples off as punishment later. And as for pregnancy? Her problem, not his. It could be dealt with.

Even in her pain and disorientation, this added to her stress as she thought about diseases and pregancy. Horrified, she realized she was coming, the combination of physical stress and emotional degradation had tripped a masochistic switch in her, and a convulsive orgasm overtook her tormented body.

After he shot his load, he stood up and looked her over. Oh he'd noted the orgasm, it pleased him. The bitch had been so hot, he'd lost control towards the end, had not had it together enough to make sure she came as he'd wanted. But he was pleased to see that she'd taken care of that herself.

She looked so utterly defeated, so totally used, that he could almost feel his cock stirring again. Definitely, there would be a round two. This bitch, he thought, looked so delicious, that he had to save these moments for posterity. He ran upstairs, got his digital camera. When he returned, she was still lying in position. He took a few pictures from different angles, including a lovely one of his semen leaking from her reddened cunt. And then, inspired, he got Lynsey to do some posing, offering up her breasts and ass, spreading her legs, alternating between submissive and pornographic postures. Her smile, of course, was completely and obviously false. No one who looked at those blasted eyes, the strained features, the grimace, could ever believe that these were voluntary pictures or that she was enjoying herself. But for Jack, that simply added to them.

Time for a break, he thought. He secured her to his fucking table, a large linen covered platform that was angled for easy use. Kind of like that table that they always brought Frankenstein to life on. After all, he didn't want her getting in trouble. He went upstairs, this time leaving the light on, just so she could think about what might come next.

Upstairs, Jack took a shower, then signed onto the net, transmitting digital images as an unexpected bonus to his waiting and eager audience. He chatted for a while, discussing what would come next. They had some very interesting ideas for afterwards that made his cock hard.

Lynsey glanced up as Jack came downstairs.

�Okay,� Jack told her gleefully, holding out his piercing needles, �this is for all the marbles.�

Lynsey stared her eyes wild, whites rolling, at the brutal skewers he was approaching her with. He set them down on the bench beside her.

�Please,� she begged. �Oh god, please don't do this.�

�Oh bitch,� he said, �you're going to love this.�

She thrashed in panic, her hips lifting from the bench. But he easily caught them and maneuvered his hard cock into her, penetrating her. He began thrusting, his hands mangling her now swollen and aching breasts.

Despite herself, she responded, her body getting wet, her cunt sending signals of pleasure. Oh god, she told herself, just fuck him, fuck him good and maybe he won't do any more. Please him. and a part of her was thinking, oh this is good. Fuck me good.

�Ready?� he asked.

He picked up a small metal object that had accompanied the skewers. She'd barely noticed it in the company of the terrifying needles. He reached down between their legs, pulling his cock back until only the head was within. His fingers deftly found and manipulated her clit, seizing and pulling it.

There was a savage saw toothed tightness gripping her and she screamed with shock and pain. Her body spasmed, intense sensations like and unlike orgasm shot up and down her spine. She'd never felt anything like it.

�Clit clamp,� Jack exclaimed, �I thought you'd like it.�

Clit clamp? Oh god. Suddenly, it rocketed clearly in her mind. The elaborate set up, the sequence of tortures, it was all so familiar.

�You're from the chat,� she squealed.

�Of course,� Jack said grinning, �what did you think?�

He rammed his cock hard into her, grinding against the clit clamp, pushing it against their two bodies. She shrieked, her next words forgotten.

�Wild isn't it,� he smiled at her thrashing body, twisting her nipples as he humped her fiercely. Each pelvic thrust brought paroxysms of sexual agony through the clit clamp. �Don't worry though, it ain't gonna come loose in the fucking. It'll tear your clit off before it lets go.�

He jammed her especially hard for emphasis.

�Oh God!� Lynsey shrieked. She couldn't get a train of thought together, each pelvic thrust, each sexual invasion of her cunt, each stab of agony in her clit, derailed her. But even so, she was struck by how she had masturbated to this scenario in the chatroom, and to others like it, and then he'd thrust, and the train would start up again, like a broken record, skipping and skipping

�Oh man,� he grunted, �you are good. I can feel your wet cunt grabbing me, tightening around me every time I jam you. You're one hot piece of ass.�

Jack fucked her steadily, working himself up to orgasm, pushing her with alternate waves of pain and pleasure.

It was coming close. Time for the big finish, he decided.

He shoved his cock in deep and held it there, laying his weight on her. The new pressure on her clit clamp made her forget about her aching nipples, about the stings and slaps, she simply shook and spasmed and struggled.

Lynsey didn't notice as he reached for one of the piercing needles and a cork. Gingerly, trying not to draw her attention, he laid the cork against her raw and swollen nipple.

�Say cheese,� he said and suddenly rammed the heavy piercing needle, the largest gauge he could get away with, through the deep fleshy part of her nipple, embedding it deep in the cork.

The pain ripped through Lynsey, drawing her away for a shocking moment, from the agony of the clit clamp. She stared in absolute horror at the skewer through her breast, for a few seconds, she couldn't even breath.

Then she thrashed like she was electrocuted. Her cunt spasmed wildly, almost pushing Jack over into orgasm. But he held on, he wanted to do the other one.

This time, there was no hiding, she watched him reach for the skewer. She spewed an incoherent garble of begging, pleading, screaming as he waved it in front of her. Her hips bucked wildly trying to throw him off, she actually knocked the clit clamp loose and it clattered on the floor. Jack noticed and cursed internally, but despite that, he loved her struggles. She tore at her bonds, struggled and flailed like a wild animal. The piercing needle already in her breast flopped about wildly.

Oh this was going to be good, he thought. Laying his weight on her to hold her down, his cock embedded deeply in her spasming cunt, he grabbed her nipple, holding it painfully. Her eyes were white with fear. Slowly, he laid the cork against it, brought the piercing needle forward.

Her screams were like music, and her whole body spasmed. As he slowly slid the needle into her flesh, the feelings of her pain and the sensations of her cunt on his cock were sending him over the edge. As he pierced her nipple, he ejaculated up inside her, a massive powerful orgasm that had him forcing the needle all the way through the cork and halfway out the other side. It was so powerful his vision almost whited out.

But he had presence of mind even as his cock spurted its last bursts of semen to reach down to her hyperexcited cunt. With a few deft manipulations of his fingers, he triggered an orgasm that shook her.

Jack rocked his hips, working his softening cock inside her clutching throbbing folds, forcing his last drops of semen up into her despoiled womb. He luxuriated in his taking of her, the helpless agonized surrender written on her slack face.

Almost done, he thought. Taking advantage of the passivity of her orgasm, he reached down for a heavy ring, slipped the plastic joint on it, drew the first piercing needle out, and slid the first ring in. It was a quick easy process, barely a drop of blood. Then, with equal confidence, he inserted the second ring. Oh she looked good.

Finally, he pulled himself off her, listening to her soft panting. He straightened up, grinned, and said. �Okay, that wasn't bad. Listen, I'm going to make some coffee, you want cream or sugar with yours.�

She opened her eyes, Jack enjoyed the mild shock in them as she tried to process his words. Finally, she understood. How should she respond to this man who had brutally raped her and now wanted to know her coffee preferences? It seemed surreal.

Eventually, she managed to say, �black is fine.�

Jack chuckled. �I would have bet you liked it strong and black,� he slapped her thigh, a friendly stinging gesture, unlocked her wrists. �Coming right up.�

He gestured to a corner. �Sorry about your clothes, if you want something to wear. Not like you need to, try that pile there.�

Lynsey stared at the pile of rags in the corner. Whistling tunelessly, Jack left her to it and trotted upstairs.



Lynsey sat at Jack's kitchen table in a mild state of shock. A mug of steaming coffee was in her hands. She'd found a dirty T-shirt and a pair of sweat pants to cover her nudity.

�I know you might want to take the rings out,� he was telling her. �But you need to leave them at least a week.�

�Why?�

�Infection,� he lied, �without the rings in there, you'll have torn tissue with nothing to keep it open. So, infection will set in. You don't want your nipples turning black and seeping pus, do you?�

She shuddered, the very thought made her queasy. Jack smiled.

�You should be safe after a week. My advice is to leave them for a month and then decide if you want to keep them or not. Your call. But they look good on you.�

Lynsey simply grunted. Her nipples ached horribly, and she could feel the visceral weight and shape of the heavy rings.

She still couldn't believe it. Moments ago, she'd been downstairs, chained, terrorized, whipped and raped. Now she was sitting here in the kitchen of the man who had done it all to her, as if it had never happened. Sort of.

�Man,� he said, �you were so fucking hot. You were a wet dream. I'm glad I didn't wear a rubber, I didn't want to miss a bit of you.�

�Thanks,� Lynsey said, �I think.�

She thought a little.

�How did you find me?�

Jack chuckled, the lie was already prepared. �Well, I was at this department store, and I saw you. You fit the description, and you were wearing this outfit you'd described. So, I decided to follow you. You bought something from a salesgirl, paid with a credit card, so after you left, I came over fed her some story and paid her fifty bucks for your address and customer information. Simple as that.�

�Simple as that,� Lynsey repeated softly.

�Simple as that,� Jack said, �it was just a fluke.�

�A fluke,� Lynsey said. It was a fluke. A once in a million chance. That was all. But.

�Who was the salesgirl?�

Jack chuckled and shook his head, �I wouldn't want to get the poor girl in trouble. You did ask for this, you know.�

Lynsey blinked. It was a fluke she told herself. But.

�Did you tell anyone else?�

Jack nodded guiltily.

�Yeah, one guy. A friend of mine. We agreed it shouldn't go any further than the two of us. After all, why kill the golden goose? We figured if it got too far out, then it would turn into a mess, no fun.�

�One?�

�Yeah, his big thing was nailing you in a parking lot. Then he was going to take off for a few weeks.�

So the Parking Lot rape was part of it, she thought to herself. She didn't know if that comforted or frightened her. But what about the other incident?

�Anyone else?�

�Nope. We swore secrecy.�

�But there were two guys who said. They took me for a hooker. � Lynsey trailed off under Jack's innocent gaze. Had that been real? That they had really taken her for a hooker? That for them, it had just been a transaction, fucking a hooker? She had submitted so easily. She felt more and more disoriented.

�Geez,� Jack said, �you okay? You look pale suddenly.�

�No. No. It's okay.�

�Look, if some guys mistook you for a hooker, that was nothing to do with me or Zacc. He nail you?�

She nodded. �Parking lot.�

Jack swore softly. �Fuck, I owe him twenty bucks! That bastard, he told me he was going to go for it this week, I figured I'd be in first!�

�This week?� Lynsey felt a tremor of fear.

Jack noted it and made an innocent face. �Oh don't worry about that. We each figured that the merry go round was good for one ride apiece. If he's had you, he's not going to come back.�

�One ride?� She didn't dare to hope.

Jack shrugged. �Yep, and I've just had mine. You're off the hook. I mean really, I don't think we could get away with raping you over and over, could we? I mean, that wasn't what you were up for.� Jack allowed a note of hope to creep in his voice, a warning that sent shivers up her spine.

�No, no,� she said quickly and tried to smile, �offer good for one time only.�

Jack winked. �I thought so.�

�So,� he asked her, �did he make you come?�

Lynsey blushed.

�You were so fucking hot,� he said. �I could tell you were into it. I mean, we play at rape right? But the real thing, that's not cool. I could feel how you wanted it though. You know how I could tell it wasn't really rape?�

Lynsey stared blankly. It wasn't really rape? It had felt like it. She had been violated to her core. Jack didn't wait for the answer.

�You came like a fountain!� He said, �the moment I stuck my hand up between your legs. And let me tell you, I was a little nervous until then. But you were dripping.�

�See,� he lectured her, �I used to work in hospitals, in trauma ward, emergency. I saw a lot of shit.� He was lying, but of course, she couldn't know that.

�So you know, we got to know things. Thing with a woman, if it's genuine rape, like she really doesn't want it, there's physiological reactions, right? Her body goes into fight or flight mode, all the blood goes to the limbs, she's pumping out adrenalin. It's like the opposite of a big meal, you know, all the blood goes to internal organs for di