Archive-name: Bondage/the_bed.txt

Archive-author: 

Archive-title: Bed, The





     Wimples' first conscious thought was surprise at having one. Eyes 

still closed his mind took inventory; A throbbing headache and a sore 

neck served both to demonstrate that his experience had not been a 

dream and that he was painfully alive.  He tried to move and found 

that something restrained him; obviously it was not over. 



     Still he was relatively unhurt, they probably frighten, not 

actually kill their victims, he reasoned.  All he had to do was play 

their game, go along as though he believed and they would alternately 

tire of cat and mouse and let him go. Probably a little shop warn, 

certainly humiliated, but at least alive. 



     In spite of his predicament, his deductions afforded him more 

than a small measure of comfort.  Wimple could face anything so long 

as he had some feeling of control.  Even though he was clearly still 

their prisoner he now possessed his wits and perception of reality.  

Before their motives had been so utterly alien and unexpected as to 

leave him confused and helpless, like a navigator sailing into the 

void without celestial sights, horizon or even sea to fix on.  



     Now he knew them for what they where; sadistic rapists.  

Countless women have faced and prevailed over such encounters in the 

past, so could he.  All he had to do was think as they had; placate, 

plead even grovel, but above all wait for just the right moment to 

act. Like all rapists before them, humiliation was their only true 

passion, they would inevitably become careless in their driving need 

to gloat. With care and a little psychology he could vastly improve 

his chances.



     The fact that the traditional roles where reversed made no 

important difference. If anything, he had one advantage over his 

female counterparts; his physical superiority.  When the opportunity 

presents, he plotted, he would use that strength to do more than 

escape.



     With that thought resolutely in mind he opened his eyes only to 

be plunged again into confusion.  At first he thought that he must be 

hallucinating; he saw himself far below, fully clothed save shoes and 

socks, bound hand and foot, spread-eagled, to the four corners of a 

massive brass bed.  For a split second he felt the nausea of falling 

and then the realization of the absurd; the image was not below, but 

above.  A huge mirror spanned the four posts of the canopied monster.



     His orientation restored, he took in the details of his 

surroundings with the precision automatic to his nature. The bed, 

pillows under his head, curtains festooning the overhead mirror and 

even his bindings looked to be of black satin.  Everything about the 

bed and its appointments spoke of expense and permanence.  This 

did not bode well with his theory of ultimate release.  He had 

expected to find himself hog-tied among the rubbish in some back 

forgotten alley.  This was an exotic boudoir or at least what he 

could see of it, would they let him go, to tell of it?



     A footstep brought his attention abruptly from his reverie, the 

top of a woman's head appeared to the left of his twin in the 

mirror.  He looked to his left and saw no one, only powder blue 

walls atop oak wainscoting vaulted out of view.  Furious with 

himself for his stupidity in allowing preoccupation with the man 

above to disorient him, he flung his head to the right and met 

the gaze of the real world.



     Raven surveyed him coldly like a butcher seizing up a roast, his 

optimism collapsed into despair.  Once again his reflection 

mocked him, not in the mirrored surface overhead, but the evil 

glint of a very large kitchen knife held lightly in what would 

have otherwise been a graceful hand.  She was clad only in a 

brief black satin bra and panties, a perfect match for the bed. 

He had always considered black an erotic color, now he was 

reminded of its more traditional use.



     Wimple wondered if its brevity was designed to tease him or 

simply prevent her from soiling he clothes.  Her maniacal manner made 

him strongly suspect the later.  



     He struggled frantically against his bonds.  Her free hand 

flicked out with blurring speed and slapped his face hard in a mind 

numbing staccato burst.  His tear fogged vision revealed Her leer 

had deepened with obvious satisfaction.  



     She put her index finger to her lips, admonishing him not to 

speak, while at the same time brandishing her blade to and fro 

like a deadly metronome counting out a dirge.  She towered over 

him, well over six feet tall, her manner made her seem even 

taller. Raven was as hard as Jennifer was soft.



     Jennifers' body was a single liquid curve, ripe melon smooth 

breasts, petite flowing torso, Earth Mother hips, all gentle, 

delicate and inviting. Even in the last moments at the cobbled 

circle she had been comforting. 



     Ravens' body seemed chiseled in stone, hard, angular, muscled 

like a dancer, rigid yet poised as though an Olympic gymnast or jungle 

cat just before a leap.  She was without question the most bountiful 

woman Wimple had every seen, immensely female, but in no way feminine.  

Her bosoms thrust outwards like unassailable peaks, hips wide and 

defiant, everything about her was quietly dangerous, dark, unyielding 

and formidable.



     Raven climbed slowly onto the bed, brandishing her knife like a 

pirate boarding a captured ship.  She come to rest heavily astride 

Wimples' chest, pinning him tightly down. He felt like a insect on a 

card as she coolly examined him.  She looked down at him with 

dispassionate curiosity, not with an intercourse of minds, but the way 

one scrutinizes a thing.  



     Wimple averted his gaze nervously from hers in a vain attempt to 

scan the room for help he knew would not be there.  His attention was 

quickly recaptured by the feel of cold steel against his throat.  Her 

blade lay flat against his neck, edge directed under his chin.  



     Wimple took the only defense left to him; he went limp.  

Convinced his struggles would incite her the way a fleeing mouse 

excites a cat, he gaped transfixed into her unsympathetic eyes, 

daring not even to breath.



     She returned an almost human smile of approval, tapped his nose 

playfully with the flat of her blade and laid it aside with a 

reassuring gesture.  Almost forgotten, his breath returned in short 

restrained gasps as though afraid to annoy by his need for air.  If 

anything, her mood lightened further in response to his obvious 

deference. Wimple began once again to hope. 



     As if in answer, like a tide slowly rising up a beach, she slid 

forward until his face was buried deep in the cleft of her warm 

crotch.  In spite of his rising fear the fragrance of her 

womanhood brought back hungry pulsating need to his loins.  She 

swayed in perfect rhythm to his accelerating heart beat, closing 

her thighs a little tighter with the period of each arch.  The 

wetness of her perfume soaked through the satin of her panties 

filling every pore of his face, her smell became his world.  His 

breath gone, buzzing dizziness ringing in his ears his body began 

to writhe in desperate need for air.



     She slide down his chest, coming to rest astride his groin and 

allowed him to gasp noisily for air.  Her playful mood gone, 

replaced by her usual deadly leer, she waited patently for him to 

grasp what she was about to do.  



     Once again he felt the chill of her blade, this time against the 

soft of his belly. Edge upward, between skin and shirt, she drew it 

slowly toward his chin slicing through his clothing as though cleaning 

a fish.  The symbolisms of her gesture was crystal clear and 

profoundly threatening.  



     His shirt laid open, her blade embedded in his throat, 

restrained, hovering on the threshold of piercing his flesh, she 

paused just long enough for him to get the other point.  Satisfied 

that he understood, she averted its edge down his sleeve.  More 

quickly this time, severing the fabric of the left and then the right 

until finally his shirt lay open in ruins, like a freshly skinned 

pelt.  

     

    Again she paused, this time much longer, drinking in the smell of 

his fear as if a connoisseur sniffing a cork.  Her body and his 

quivered in unison; hers with evil passion, his in mounting terror.  

She turned her blade downward, clutched firmly with both hands and 

raised it high above his throat, as if preparing to plunge it with all 

her might.  



     Instead it drifted down like a Autumn leaf, an act in slow 

motion, until its tip touched his throat transverse to his body.  Eyes 

crossed and bulging he peered into the idiot countenance of his 

reflection in the knife.  Poised delicately she drew it broadside 

down his body, marking its passage in light pain and heavy 

anguish, mimicking where wounds might have been and yet may be 

with a descending line of gooseflesh.  



     Agonizing moments later the point met the feeble resistance of 

cloth.  She dismounted, knelt beside him and turned the razor keen 

edge under the fabric as before, cleaving the denim of his pants, it 

fell aside like a plow through sod.  All the while keeping delicate 

contact with his flesh beneath, scraping over the tip of his penis, 

down its shaft and over the scrotum.  Wimple would have screamed in 

horror but he dare not, her expression left no doubt.  



     Again her blade descended under cloth, first down one leg and then 

the other, leaving his pants, like the shirt before it, disemboweled 

in effigy.  His skivvies where the last intact garment, Wimples' 

barely functioning logic assumed they would go next.  But as always 

Raven did the unexpected, the woman was a craftsman, a student of 

theater, she instinctively understood drama.  He wasn't quite ready.



     Somehow he still had partial a erection, certainly not supported 

by passion, but rather forgotten in his anguish, like his breath 

earlier.  Raven turned her attention on the bulge under the white 

cotton. She unsheathed her teeth in an evil grin and lowered her mouth 

over his swollen member.  Chewing just short of pain, expertly up and 

down its rapidly expanding length until it seemed as though it would 

burst.



     Wimple couldn't believe his own response!  How could his body 

react to what his mind loathed?  As in the lamp lit court, he felt 

betrayed by his own body.  The degradation committed against him was 

nothing compared to the loathing he felt for himself.  



     Raven watched his reaction with intense interest, studying his 

slightest twitch of expression.  As though confirmed by some subtle 

response in him, she intensified her manipulations.  Wimple groaned 

loudly, NO!, NO!, NO!, he shouted in whimpering frustration. Exactly 

in concert with his cry, she plunged the knife under his shorts 

rending them down to the crotch, and laid its cruel edge threateningly 

against his impending eruption.



     Everything fell with his erection; mind, purpose, self esteem, 

will and even fear.  All gone, extracted by Ravens' promised surgery 

and his disgust for himself. Even the desire to breath seemed like too 

much bother.  He lay there, totally deflated, he felt nothing.



     Now dispassionate and merely efficient, Raven finished cutting 

away the remains of his shorts.  Wimple stared blankly into space, 

oblivious to her acts.  She could have slit his throat an inch at a 

time and he wouldn't have noticed or cared. She pulled the tattered 

fragments of his clothing from under him, as though making the morning 

bed.  His head lulled back and forth unattached to his 

consciousness.



     Finally she finished her housekeeping and returned her attention 

to Wimple, he wasn`t there.  His body still occupied the surface of 

the bed, but his mind had fled.  With a great show of boredom she 

remounted his chest.  No reaction from Wimple.  She slapped him hard 

in the face.  Wimple looked back with disinterest.  Raven beamed in 

autocratic triumph.



     From somewhere deep inside Wimple a gurgling growl found its way 

to the surface.  His eyes, once vacant, now blazed back at Raven in 

hateful defiance.  You sadistic bitch!, he raged.  If ever I get free 

I'll have your god forsaken heart for lunch!  He didn't care what she 

did to him, she had gone to far fore him to care.



     Instead of retaliating, she looked down on him with amusement, 

shrugged and stepped lightly to the floor.  She picked up her 

discarded weapon and advanced on his prostrate body.  Wimple was 

certain that she was about to kill him, but his furry was far to 

deep to do anything but glower.  He was helpless to act, but if she 

got close enough, his teeth would leave a lasting reminder of someone 

who was not her groveling slave.



     Ravens' knife went to his feet, not to his throat.  She cut 

through his bindings, left and right. Stepped casually to the head, 

stretched over him, her breasts in easy reach of his anger and freed 

his left hand, quickly followed by his right.  Task complete, she 

stepped backwards nimbly to the far side of the room, leaned 

insolently against the wall, arms crossed, knife protruding upward.



     Wimple didn't exactly leap to his feet, he had been bound to long 

for that.  His departure was more a resurrection than the vengeful 

charge he would have preferred.  Emotion more than restraint had left 

him wobbly on his feet.  



     He looked across the room, eyeing Ravens' knife warily, trying to 

figure his best option.  In reply she twirled it in the air and caught 

it by its tip.  Raising the weapon over her shoulder, she readied to 

throw.  Wimple eyed the room for shelter, finding none he balanced his 

posture to avoid the forthcoming missile.  He was dubious of his 

chances, all too familiar with her skill, he doubted she would miss.



     Raven never failed to surprise, she threw, embedding the blade 

deep in the floor exactly bisecting the distance between them.  Wimple 

had hardly expected sportsmanship but he wasn't fool enough to waste 

an opportunity, he charged.  Raven seemed to ignore him, her insolent 

stance didn't change a wit, she simply grew in his view as he closed 

the distance.  A fraction of a second before impact she vanished, to 

late to abort the charge.  Wimple collided hard against the 

wainscoting and fell to the deep pile wool carpet in a heap.



     Every joint and bone achieving, he looked bewilderingly around 

for the dematerialized woman.  Laughter mocked him from behind.  She 

stood where he had begun, leaning as before against a post at the foot 

of the bed. He had been foolish, the woman was younger, fit and 

faster.  He possessed the power, not the speed, to prevail he must use 

it wisely.  Wimple closed the distance between them, this time, more 

cautiously. 



     

                     ???? TO BE CONTINUED ????

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