The Taking Of Pamela Harris

The Taking of Pamela Harris

Julian Winslow

According to the police report, when Pamela Bryce Harris, heiress to the Harris millions, was kidnapped, she was wearing nothing but her bathrobe and a pair of panties; she still wore the same things now as she sat in total darkness on the bare wooden floor of a narrow closet. The small-breasted blonde looked like she had collapsed in place. Her slumped shoulders rested back against the far wall, her sagging head lolling down on her chest, extended legs angling out before her so that her bare feet were pressed up against the closet door. Slack-limbed, like some rag doll that had been tossed into the corner to be neglected, the bedraggled girl's mind floated, while her body slipped further into its dull lethargy.

Scattered thoughts came to her, bits and pieces of the frantic night when she had been taken, the chaotic events playing over and over in her mind. It all happened so fast so that even now she couldn't quite believe it had really happened. It might have been a nightmare; one from which she would soon wake up.

She remembered...coming home from school, having decided to make Stephen a nice meal, complete with candles and wine. Afterwards, she would change, and take a shower. Coming out of the shower, she ran a comb through her damp hair, stepped into a fresh pair of panties, and pulled on her blue terrycloth bathrobe, loosely cinching it at the waist as she padded into the livingroom. The couple intended to spend the rest of their evening curled up on the couch watching a movie on television. Just another quiet evening at home.

At the knock on the door, they turned to each other, puzzled. It was pretty late and they weren't expecting anyone. Stephen went; Pamela could hear the sounds of muffled voices. A woman's voice, she thought, pleading, asking for something. Mildly curious, Pamela was about to go to the hallway to see what it was all about, when the door was suddenly slammed open, and the gang crashed into the room in a violent whirl: three men and a woman, in camouflage and ski masks, screaming at them, and yelling orders to one another. She watched in stupefied amazement as a weakly protesting Stephen was easily flung aside. She remembered his wide, disbelieving eyes as he lay on the floor, gazing up at the booted, combat-clad attackers, stepping over him to get to his girlfriend. They dragged the bathrobe-clad girl, shrieking and yelling hysterically, towards the front door. She was lifted off her kicking feet, and carried down the stairs to a waiting car that stood with engine running; its trunk lid open. The terrified heiress was bundled inside the trunk and the lid slammed shut, sealing her off from the outside world, imprisoning her in total darkness. Curled up and holding herself, she whimpered as she felt the car begin to move.

During the long ride, her terror had grown so she was paralyzed by fear by the time the car came to stop. The trunk flew open, and they grabbed her and hauled her out into the warm summer's night. She remembered begging in her desperation, pleading all the while with her kidnappers, who went about their job with methodical precision, paying not the slightest attention to her shrill babbling. Someone brought her arm up painfully behind her, pinning it there to hold the struggling woman in place, while someone else tied a blindfold over her eyes. Two of the men picked her up under the arms, and they dragged her limp body up some stairs, then into a house. She was thrown into this closet, and the door slammed behind her. Her heart sunk at the definite click of a deadbolt.

Then the girl was alone, in total darkness...had been for how long? Hours? Was it really hours ago?...Long hours?...or had it been days? Left alone for hours on end, her world reduced to the dark confines of her little prison. It was close, hot and stuffy in the closet, and she was perspiring freely. But she now longer bothered to wipe her brow. The captive soon found herself drifting; her mind, a blank.

She had passed beyond those first wild frantic dreams of rescue, and now she had slipped into a sort of torpor, a hopelessness that came with the realization that she could do nothing; only wait for others to do with her what they would. In such a state, prisoners have been known to sink into despondency: unthinking, uncaring. In this way time slowly passed for Pamela Harris seated on the floor of her closet.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, the door flew open and the small closet was abruptly flooded with a blinding light. The shock of brilliance caused Pamela to cry out, and her dilated eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, snapped protectively shut. And when she managed to blink them open, she found herself staring up at the tall bearded one, the one she thought of as their leader. Behind him three others crowded closer, one of them was the girl with the short-cropped hair. She had recognized that one of her captors was a female even though she had been masked and clad in baggy army fatigues. The girl was still in her loose fatigue pants although she had on a thin black tanktop, and the mask was gone. However, Pamela still could not see her face, as she was now holding a camcorder to her eye, aiming it down at their cringing captive. Terrified, Pamela whimpered and cowered back on the dusty floorboards although there was nowhere to retreat to, hemmed-in as she was by the close confines of the closet's walls. Her abductor took a step closer till he stood half-straddling her, looking down on the huddled girl.

"What do you people want with me?" she cried, desperation making her voice higher than she expected. There was a wavering shrillness that verged on hysteria.

The man said not a word, but a truly evil grin came over the bearded face that he looked down on the helpless captive. Staring into her frightened eyes, he reached for the zipper on the front of his jeans. He watched her watching him -- saw her panic-stricken eyes widen as she followed the hand that lowered the zipper and reached into his opened pants.

"No!" she cried in sudden alarm, as the horrible realization sunk in -- the bearded man was about to extract his penis. And she knew what for!

"Get up, cocksucker! On your knees!" he ordered gruffly, fingering the swelling prick he held cradled in his right hand. Pamela cringed even further back into the closet walls, looking wildly from one to the other, hoping that one of them might be moved by her plight, at least the woman. But the girl never reacted, just kept the running camera pointed at her, while the others stood watching intently and the leering man stepped closer. Instantly, his left hand shot out to grab a fistful of her thick blond hair. She whined and squirmed as he twisted his clenched fist and lifted her by the hair, bringing tears to her big brown eyes. She struggled, desperately scrambling to her knees in order to keep her stretching hair from being pulled out by the roots.

"Open!"

To his surprise he found the girl would not obey. Her time in solitary confinement had not yet broken her spirit. 'Good,' he thought, smiling down on her. 'I'm going to enjoy this!'

Pamela had overcome her fear just enough to summon up some reserve of courage. Now, she was determined to keep her clenched teeth tightly shut even as her kidnapper yanked her toward his hairy crotch. He grunted at her mute obstinacy.

Instantly, she was flooded with relief as he eased the painful grip on her hair. Had he accepted her refusal? But, no, he let go of her hair only so that he could get a better grip on her head. Now clamping her face between his big hands, he held her immobilized while he thrust his hips forward, bringing his fully-erected cock into contact with her for the very first time, squirming his hips to lavishly rub his stiffened manhood all over her scrunched-up face: over her closed eyes, down her nose, across her soft cheeks, over her tightly-pressed lips, laughing at the way she shuddered in disgust.

"You got a lot to learn, Miz Rich Bitch," he hissed, as she struggled in vain to turn her pretty face away from his lewd offering. "And the first thing you gotta learn is how to obey." With hands over her ears, he held her face pressed tight up against his upright cock, relishing the triumphant thrill of having the rich girl's soft face mashed against his hardened sex. "See the thing is, when any one of us tells you what to do, you do it." He moved, rubbing himself up and down along the side of her nose. "And it's not like we're asking you, like you're some sort of princess or something. No. We're telling you -- like you're some sort of slave. Our slave. 'Cause that's what you are. 'Pammy the Cunt' -- our little sex slave. And before I'm through with you, you're gonna be real good little slave. You're gonna beg me to suck my cock. In fact, you're gonna do whatever the fuck I want with you, and thank me politely, with one big shit-eatin' grin!"

During this monologue, Pamela struggled weakly in the guy's iron grip. Meanwhile, he started bucking his hips in a parody of fucking, sending his prick pumping up and down along her pretty features. He ground his hips into her; held her squashed against him. Pamela, her nose buried in pubic hair, smelled the moist order of his crotch. She was suffocating, hands fluttering helplessly. Panic stricken, she suddenly realized that the guy meant to use her to masturbate... and he was about to ejaculate, right on her face!

She whimpered when she felt a massive surge shoot through his hardened prick. Abruptly he jerked back, grabbed his throbbing cock to aim it at squarely at her wide-eyed face ---just as he felt the unstoppable rise of creamy pleasure surging up in him. He arched up on his toes, and holding his erupting prick between his fingers, moving the pulsating head to paint Pamela Bryce Harris' aristocratic blonde face with his surging sperm. He laughed when she clenched her eyes shut, and turned away in disgust. Again the hand grabbed a fistful of hair, and he held the blonde's twisting, contorted face with one hand while he laid a thick line of cum across her forehead, running it down along her nose to where it puddled under her right eye. Her brows and lashes were left thickened with the sticky cum. Slimy rivets dribbled down her cheeks; dripped down to dangle from her chin in long, gooey strands

The gang broke into raucous cheers. And when the last of his copious discharge weakened into a thin gruel, the bearded man used that handful of fine blond hair he still clutched to pulled her head back till her face was upturned to the camera, and that was how she saw herself when they later forced the humiliated girl to watch her very first video -- with the cum of their leader decorating her pretty features like a sticky spider web. Even her beautiful hair was festooned with strings of the glistening stuff.

***

Continuing to use her hair as a convenient handle, he hauled the stumbling, cum-bespattered blonde to her feet and forced her before him, into the main part of the room, where the others stood waiting. They were all there -- the ones who had taken her: the bearded leader; the "butch," for that was how Pamela thought of the short-haired, hard-looking girl; a small wiry guy with the look of a weasel; and a husky blond with coarse features and cold gray eyes. They were all dressed in black or olive drab t-shirts and the ever-present fatigue pants that she later learned was the uniform of their self-styled "Sexual Liberation Army."

"Please don't hurt me, please...YEEOUCH!" She cried out as her hair was given a single vicious twist that brought tears to her eyes, and made her knees buckle. She would have fallen, but he held her up by the hair, so that she had to scramble wildly to keep her feet under her.

"Shuddup, Cunt!! You not to speak unless spoken to!"

Pamela stood barefoot in the center of the room breathing heavily, her shoulders heaving, her head sunk low. She was terrified, afraid to utter a sound. No one moved.

Even though she kept her eyes on the floor, the captive was able to take in her surroundings for the first time: a small, high-ceilinged room, like so many of the old Victorians of San Francisco. Brightly painted in the upscale neighborhoods, and worn and shabby in the poorer ones, the big wooden houses defined the many faces of the City. This place had the temporary, nondescript quality of a cheap hotel room. It might have been one of those abandoned houses, hastily furnished, with a few items of shabby, secondhand furniture; the kind that gangs of hippy squatters once left boarded up while they happily moved in, coming together in the spirit of sharing food, music, drugs, and each others bodies. The room was brightly lit and warm, although, thankfully, not as hot as the intolerably stuffy closet. Heavy brown paper had been taped over all the window. This meant they couldn't be opened. That probably accounted for the hot-house atmosphere as the place trapped the heat of the summer's night.

They all stood watching her as the bedraggled, bathrobe-clad girl was shoved into their midst. No one said a word. Pamela, her downcast eyes still on the dusty floorboards, brought up a weary hand to wipe her sticky face.

"No!" the leader warned from behind her. "Leave it! Tell her, Bandit."

The butch girl folded her arms under her the taut curves of her plump braless breasts and smirked, preening in the new-found role of borrowed authority.

"When Cap here, or any other guy, decides to honor you by presenting you with a load of his spunk, you smile and say: 'Thank you, Sir.' And you leave it alone...right where he put it, till he tells you you can wash it off. Get it?"

They waited till they saw the low-hung blond head stirred and looked as though it were about to nod. Then, in a flash, the girl was bolting for the hall in a desperate attempt to make it to the front door! For a moment the conspirators stood there, staring a one another, listening to the bare feet pounding down the wooden floor of hallway. Then Cap turned to the two men. "Go get her," he said, shaking his head in mock resignation.

Her pursuers caught up with the escaping prisoner, just as she was trying to frantically claw her way through the myriad of complicated locks that secured the heavy oak door. She was grabbed, roughly manhandled, and dragged, kicking and screaming her shrill protests, all the way back to the where the other two waited.

This time the stocky guy had her, and he was none too gentle. Holding her from behind he had forced her arm up high behind her back, bringing her to instant tears, and causing the poor girl to bend forward to alleviate the sharp hint of pain. He steered her this way, using the leverage that the wrestling hold provided to exert his will over her. A hissed command, accompanied by a nudge of additional pressure, instantly quieted the nearly hysterical girl.

Cap looked her over, and shook his head. Then he strolled over to the well-worn sofa to sprawl out on the middle of the ratty cushions. He leaned back, spread his booted legs, and flung his long arms up along the sofa's padded back. He ordered that the prisoner be brought before him.

The pressure on her arm was increased, bringing the girl up on her toes and arching back, as she stepped hastily to comply. In the struggle her bathrobe had come undone, and now the smooth front of her panty-clad body was partly exposed between the parted flaps.

With her guard propelling her, she shuffled along, half bent-over, head hung low, the mass of blond hair falling like a curtain to partially veil her defiled face with its residue of slowly drying sperm.

"Let her go."

And to his pretty prisoner: "Stand up...straight!" The pressure was released, and the blond guy took a step back.

The weary blonde straightened up, giving a quick toss to her head to throw back her heavy mane and stand with hands at her sides before the one they called 'Cap.' The cold blue eyes of the bearded man silently looked her up and down, noting the way the open bathrobe hung from her shoulders, the generous gap revealing the insides of her minimal breasts.

"I think it's time we got some things straight. First of all, you are a prisoner of the Sexual Liberation Army. I'm Cap; this is Bandit," he nodded to the girl; "Maggot," a nod to the skinny guy, and "Wizzer," a third nod went to the husky guy who stood behind her. And you are ....'Cum-Bucket'." He smiled, pleased with his cleverness, while the others laughed at the distraught girl who stood before him, burning with humiliation.

"Now, say your name."

"You people are crazy! LET ME GOOO!!" Pamela shrieked.

Cap's eyes tightened and he gave just the slightest nod to his waiting henchman. Instantly, the man behind her grabbed her wrist and yanked her arm up in back, causing Pamela to wince and cry out in pain.

"Wrong answer. You just don't get it, do you, Cum-Blucket? We can hurt you any time we want to...maybe you like pain?" He nodded, again a searing stab of pain shot through her. She gave out with a whimpered plea, desperately begging him to please, please stop.

"Look at me!"

Pamela raised her eyes to find herself staring into the cold implacable eyes of the man called Cap. An involuntarily shudder shot through her.

"You got a lot to learn, Cum-Bucket. Like, that all girls, even female POWs, have a definite place in the SLA."

"Yeah, on their backs!" chimed in the one called Maggot, and the other two men snickered.

"Yeah, on their backs and on their knees, and however else they can serve the cause," Cap merrily agreed. "Anyway, you're a POW see, and in a little while you're going back in that closet. If you're a good girl, we might let clean you up a bit, let you out from time to time, even feed you. I'll bet you'd like that wouldn't you? Or how about letting you use the bathroom for a piss, or a shit? Of course, you can do all those things in the closet too, you know, or we can let you out. These are sort of 'privileges'; you gotta earn 'em. Of course, if you're a bad girl-- no privileges, you get punished, then back in closet you go. Do you got it?"

The pretty blonde dropped her eyes and nodded. Immediately, there was a shock of pain.

"Yeeoooch, Yes, I understand! I understand!"

"Wrong answer, Cum-Bucket. You forgot to say: 'Sir'."

"Oh, yes, Sir," she mumbled quickly, I "I understand, Sir." Desperation in her voice; anything to avoid the sharp pain.

"Good. Now, tell us your name."

Pamela took a deep breath.

"Wait! Look at me! I want you looking at me whenever I'm talking to you!"

Her soft brown eyes rose up to find the hard blue steel of that unflinching gaze. Then, she looked her captor right in the eyes, as burning with deep humiliation, the girl summoned up all her strength to say the degrading words he wanted to hear.

"Cum-Bucket. My name is... Cum-Bucket...Sir." Blushing a deep red, she barely managed to stammer out the half-choked words, words that would deepen her degradation at the hands of these lecherous criminals.

Someone chuckled. Their stern-visaged leader allowed himself a pleased, half-amused grin.

"That's better."

He nodded to Wizzer. "Let her go."

"Now come here, Cum-Bucket," he pointed to a place on a threadbare scatter rug placed between his widely splayed legs. Her bare feet stepped onto the thin, worn rug.

"Go on. Say it again. Loud and clear this time." He ordered, looking up at her. Remembering his injunction, Pamela looked down into his eyes. Blushing furiously, her pretty, sperm-encrusted face a dark red, the thoroughly humiliated prisoner of the SLA took a deep breath, and enunciated in clear, but expressionless voice: "My name is Cum-Bucket, Sir."

"That's better. Now, lose the bathrobe, Cum-Bucket. We wanna see your tits."

By this time Pamela was beyond caring. Utterly defeated, she moved with numb indifference, simply exposing herself as ordered. Her hands rose automatically, moving with a life of their own to pull the loose robe back off her shoulders and let it fall down her arms, presenting her captor with her bare breasts. The others crowded around to get a better look at their prisoner, standing there in nothing but her panties: thin, powder blue hip huggers. Her hands were held loosely at her sides, letting them look at what she had to offer: slight rises on the lithe chest she now exposed. Barely perceptible, flattened mounds shaped like small pancakes, Pamela's petite breasts sported tight precisely-made nipples, of soft fleshy pink.