David Vanishes

Chapter 1

I can hear them coming. Even with the hood on, I am now so used to silence that their muffled footsteps coming down the stairs are amplified a hundred times in my ears. Incredible that still, after all these months, the thought of what lies ahead in the next few hours terrifies me. Already my breathing is speeding up and my muscles are tightening. You would have thought that there is only so much pain and misery one person can endure before he stops dreading it; but no -- I still dread it. If this session is the same as last time, it will be horrific. But if Sophie has devised some new torture, some new humiliation.... Oh god. I'm crying again, I realize, for the fourth or fifth time since I woke up this morning, although of course I have no idea whether it's morning or night, and haven't done since they first brought me here.

When I contemplate the living hell my life has become, I sob openly into the brutal ball-gag with which I am now so familiar. In a pathetic attempt at defiance, attempts which I still feel compelled to make when Sophie is here, I struggle against my restraints. But I can feel any real defiance draining away from me as the weeks pass. Of course it is useless, I know that. I want to scream but I don't, not this time. There'll be plenty of screaming later. The ingenuity of the restraints hits me yet again. It is almost impossible for me to move any part of my body, apart from my fingers, toes and eyes. But even worse than this physical prison that they have forced me into is the psychological prison I am trapped in. The knowledge that my own lust and stupidity lured me into this situation is the most humiliating, spirit-crushing thing of all. Sophie knows it too. When she smiles at me with that taunting, sly look of hers, I know that's what she's thinking. 'You did this to yourself,' she's thinking. 'You made it easy for us.'

When I think back to how innocently it all began, my mind recoils in horror. The flirtatious glance & giggle over her shoulder; the hand delicately trailing across my leg when she walked past; the way her lips parted slightly when I was telling her about my wedding plans; now that I know the extent of Sophie's insane cruelty and meticulous planning, these early details all fall horribly into place. She had the whole thing worked out from the start, and I never had a chance. How could such a girl construct a plan so devilishly evil? I don't think she ever intends to let me find out.

I hear the heavy lock turning in the door behind me. I try to summon up some mental strength but I'm sobbing again, wailing like a child before they've even pulled the hood off. Sophie stands in front of me, as pretty as a picture, a perfect coquette. She's smiling at me. She's holding something shiny. What is it? Oh god...

6 months earlier

I arrived in Paris looking forward to the biggest challenge of my career so far. My employer, a well-respected academic publisher, had assigned me to work with Christopher Crawford, the philosopher. We were going to publish a new volume of his collected letters and essays, and I was to help edit them. Because he refused to travel to London, I was sent to work with him in Paris. Crawford had lived in France for decades and his wife, Chloe, was French. I knew that they also had a daughter called Sophie.

The job was a huge responsibility and I was, frankly, extremely nervous when I rang the doorbell on that first morning. The maid answered and showed me in. The place was enormous: a multi-storied, lavishly furnished old townhouse that intimidated me from the start. The Crawfords were clearly rich and their house oozed an almost aristocratic classiness. I was shown into a drawing room -- all gold mirrors, expensive-looking antiques and plush, overstuffed armchairs -- and told to wait.

A few minutes later I heard rapidly approaching footsteps and a girl's voice, and then the doors flung open. I was sitting facing the door and I started to stand up, but the sight that greeted me caused me to stop awkwardly halfway up. I looked like an idiot. In front of me stood a young woman -- she was 21, I later found out, just 7 years younger than me -- in chocolate brown leather boots, black tights under a tiny, stylish miniskirt and a tight mustard-yellow cashmere sweater. She was tall and slim but the curves of her hips and breasts were pronounced. Her skin was flawless and lightly tanned, her eyes were big, soft and blue, and her long, perfectly straight hair was honey brown. She was -- I am sure -- the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

I was half-standing, staring, in shock. She was talking on her mobile. When she saw me an amused, almost haughty expression played across her face. She said something quickly in French and snapped the phone shut. Then she stood, regarding me.

'You can stand up, you know' she smiled. Her smile was captivating. I straightened up and tried to laugh. 'I'm Sophie,' she continued. 'You must be my father's new servant.' Her English was impeccable but there was a trace of a French accent when she spoke -- I thought I might melt right there just listening to her gorgeous voice.

'That's right, I'm David' I replied, walking towards her and extending my hand, which she took and shook daintily. 'Nice to meet you -- is your father here?'

'He'll be down in a minute I expect' she replied. 'Did you travel to Paris alone?'

'Yes I did' I told her, unable to take my eyes off her but anxious not to appear a creep. I desperately tried to think of something to say to prolong the conversation, but without another word she twirled on her heel and marched out of the room.

'Nice to meet you David. I'm going shopping -- see you around!' she called back with a glance over her shoulder, catching me staring at her perfect behind. Then she closed the doors and was gone.

I breathed out. Why had no-one told me what a bombshell Crawford's daughter was? She was going to be a serious distraction. I thought of Emily, my fiancée back in London, and felt guilty. I must try and focus on the work, I told myself.

Crawford arrived a few minutes later. He was friendly enough but seemed lost in his thoughts, otherworldly -- a typical philosopher, I suppose. We chatted aimlessly and agreed on a few administrative matters. I was to come to the house four mornings a week and work there till the evening. If the work dragged on into the evening I was welcome to stay in one of the guest rooms. The maid would prepare food for me and I was welcome to join the family for dinner whenever I wished. I told him I'd already met Sophie.

'Ah yes' he smiled. 'The lady of the house -- that's what we call her. She may act like she runs the whole show but don't be fooled, she's just trying to impress you.' If that's true then she's a very good actress, I thought. We agreed that I would come back the next morning to start work. That night, after I phoned Emily from my hotel room, I lay in bed and masturbated, imagining Sophie sitting over me, smiling down haughtily as she fucked me.

The next few weeks went quickly. The work was difficult, at times boring, but we made good progress. Crawford seemed to like me well enough, even if he sometimes didn't seem entirely sure who I was. Chloe, his wife, was charming and very welcoming. She was stunning too, and quite a bit younger than Crawford -- lucky bastard, I thought when I watched him kissing her. My crush on Sophie, however, was becoming a real embarrassment. When she was in the room I was nervous and distracted. When she spoke to me I became tongue-tied and sometimes even started blushing. It was ridiculous. I prayed that her parents hadn't noticed; Sophie certainly had. My suspicions from that first encounter were soon confirmed. Sophie was a tease, and she loved watching the effect she had on me.

To begin with it was all innocent enough. When she passed me in the hall she would glance back over her shoulder and wink when she saw me looking at her. A few times she even trailed her manicured nails across my thigh as she passed. When Crawford was in the room, I caught her licking her lips at me, trying to fluster me in front of her father. It worked. I would make a stupid mistake or drop something, and she would sit in the corner, bare legs crossed, giggling. I knew that Sophie enjoyed all this teasing just for its own sake but, and this was one of the first nails in my coffin, I allowed myself to think that maybe, beneath the schoolgirl teasing, she was also genuinely attracted to me. I was not unattractive, and had been involved with some beautiful girls over the years, though none quite as self-assured (or as young!) as Sophie. My fantasies became dirtier, more graphic, more elaborate. I realized that I now always thought of Sophie instead of Emily when I masturbated.

Sophie managed to extract a lot of information from me during those first few weeks. She would sit next to me, legs crossed, smiling coquettishly, and quiz me on every aspect of my life. She knew all about my fiancé, my family, my friends, where I lived, my job, my financial situation, everything. I could not deny her anything. She asked, and I told her. I was helpless. She used to drop heavy hints about her sexual exploits too. She would make references to spending the night at some playboy's apartment, or to some debauched fetish club she'd attended. At first I didn't believe these stories, assuming they were just another weapon in her arsenal of teases, but as time went on, I realized they could easily be true. Sophie's supreme sexual confidence was like nothing I'd ever encountered.

Without me even realizing it, my infatuation with Sophie was spiraling into obsession. I started to take risks -- stealing family photos from the house, just so I would have an image of her to wank over back at the hotel. Once or twice I hid outside the house and then followed Sophie when she left for an evening out. She would invariably meet up with a group of equally beautiful, rich young friends, spend hours laughing and drinking in a stylish bar somewhere, and then go on to any one of a number of terrifyingly exclusive clubs. Of course I could never follow her in -- these places were not for the likes of me.

One night, while Crawford and his wife were downstairs and Sophie was out for the night, I made some excuse about having to find a document in the upstairs study, and sneaked up into Sophie's bedroom. I wasn't sure what I was doing exactly -- I think it was just the thrill of being in her private space that made me do it. I searched through her clothes -- piles and piles of sexy, provocative outfits - took photos of her bed and her underwear, rifled through her drawers. In her bedside table I found a large dildo, condoms, several vibrators, and a pair of handcuffs. My heart leapt and my dick instantly stiffened -- she was every bit the nymph she claimed to be. I ran to the bathroom and masturbated, coming instantly.

I went downstairs and told Crawford I was working on something important and would be up late. He said of course I should stay. I sat awake in the guest bedroom for hours, listening. I heard them go to bed. Then much later, early in the morning, Sophie came home. I heard her go into her bedroom -- it was one floor above mine. Not thinking straight, consumed with lust, I crept upstairs towards her door. It was slightly ajar and the light was on. I could hear something faint -- a voice, panting, from within. I reached the door and pressed my eye to the crack.

Sophie was lying on her bed, naked apart from her panties, stockings & suspenders. She looked like a whore. Her hand was between her legs, under her panties, and she was panting softly as she touched herself. She didn't notice me. I followed her gaze to the TV. She was watching a DVD. The images on the screen chilled me, and at the same time I couldn't stop watching. It seemed to be a low-quality, home-made film. Somewhere in a dark, small room, a young man was tied to some kind of wooden frame. He was gagged and screaming in pain as a small group of men and women watched another, large bald man raping him. It clearly wasn't staged -- the young man's pain and terror were real and obvious. He struggled uselessly as the large man grabbed his hips and slammed his cock in to his victim's ass over and over again. The onlookers were smiling, laughing, taunting the boy. I looked back at Sophie -- her face was flushed, her hand movements had become quicker, more urgent. Back on the tape, one of the girls had stepped forward and was slapping the helpless boy hard across the face as the rape continued. This seemed to push Sophie over the edge -- she came hard, biting her lip, moaning softly, her fingers digging into the sheets beside her. I jumped up before she noticed me, ran back to my bed and lay there in shock, trying to understand what I'd just witnessed. The look in that poor boy's eyes haunted me, but at the same time, I realized it turned me on. Why was Sophie watching something so twisted, so depraved, so terrible? My mind reeled trying to reconcile Sophie's girlish demeanour and playful teasing with her clearly deviant sexual appetite. I lost count of how many times I made myself cum before I fell asleep.

The next morning at breakfast Sophie stalked in, sat down next to me and leaned in close.

'Did you enjoy the show last night?' she whispered, out of earshot of her parents. I gulped -- so she knew. I didn't say anything. 'It's ok, I'm not cross with you' she said, her French accent sounding more pronounced than usual. I had long suspected that she deliberately sounded more French when she was trying to turn me on. It worked -- as I listened to her voice and felt her breath on my neck, I could feel my hard cock pressing against my trousers. 'In fact it turned me on knowing you were watching me. You liked the film, didn't you?' I was paralyzed with embarrassment and arousal and could barely speak, so I just nodded. Sophie smiled; a smile of victory, I later realized. A smile like the smile a cat gives its prey before it strikes the final blow.

'Come out with me tonight' she said, squeezing my thigh. 'I've got some things to show you.'

I could hardly believe what was happening. This girl, this minx, was coming on to me. It was all I could do to stop myself jumping on her right there at the breakfast table. But, obediently, I did as she said. I waited for her in a taxi outside the house later that night. At 10pm exactly she left the house, opened the taxi door and slid in. I was speechless -- she was wearing a tiny little black cocktail dress, so short that when she sat down it seemed to ride almost right up to her ass, exposing her long, toned, tanned thighs, and killer stiletto heels. Her long hair was tied up in a severe knot above her head, pulled back tight, and there was some kind of glitter dusted over her cheeks and bare shoulders. She giggled at my open-mouthed reaction.

'Do you like what you see, David?' I nodded dumbly. 'Good -- because you're going to see a lot more very soon.' She turned to the driver and spoke quickly in French, and a short while later we had arrived at a very expensive looking bar. She took my hand and led me inside, to a reserved area towards the back of the dimly lit place, where a large group of her friends were waiting. All of them -- men and women -- were stunningly attractive. My heart sank as I felt yet again how out of place I was in this world of rich, stylish young people. But at least, I thought, I was here with Sophie.

However, Sophie did not even introduce me. She handed me her coat and gestured to an empty seat on one side of the group. For the next half an hour I watched awkwardly as she greeted, kissed and chatted to her friends in French, while I waited for her to involve me in the evening. After an hour has passed and not one of the group had even acknowledged my presence, I started to feel that this was some sort of deliberate insult. Sophie was acting like I didn't even exist. Eventually she tore herself away from one particularly handsome young man and turned to me.

'David?' she asked, smiling brightly. 'Go and get me a drink. A glass of champagne, please.' I stared at her, dumbfounded. She didn't react, just stood their, one hand on her hip, smiling. I was being humiliated and I knew it, but looking at her, I simply could not say no. I got up, trotted over to the bar, paid a ridiculous amount for the drink, and brought it back to her. Sophie took it and immediately turned her back on me, laughing at something her friend had said.

I sat down again, deflated. People started to drift off but I stayed there, stupidly, still intoxicated by Sophie's presence, hoping that eventually she would give me the attention she'd promised. I found myself sitting opposite her and the handsome young man. Sophie caught my eye and raised her eyebrows, looking down. I followed her gaze and saw that, under the table, she had slid her hand down her partner's trousers. He was clearly hard, and Sophie was masturbating him. But she was looking at me. I stared back. Her lips were parted slightly and her eyes were sparkling. She held my gaze as her hand moved faster and faster. The young man's eyes were shut and his head rolled back as Sophie expertly brought him to climax, and when he came she bit her lip to stifle a giggle.

Minutes later she stood up and leant over me.

'We're leaving' she announced. 'I'll see you tomorrow.' And she marched out, the young man in tow, leaving me dumbfounded. How dare she? She had brought me out here, ignored me, and then used me as a prop in one of her kinky games. To my annoyance though, I felt more turned on than I'd ever been. I dutifully made my way back to the hotel and wanked over one of my stolen photos, splashing cum on Sophie's face. As I drifted off to sleep I remembered I'd promised to call Emily tonight. She would be angry with me -- but I didn't care.

Chapter 2

Sophie didn't come home the next day, or the next, so I was left to stew in frustration. I was so confused by the events of the other night that my work was suffering. In fact the work was not going well. I found it hard to concentrate, and found myself listening out for Sophie rather than thinking about the job. Crawford was getting angry with me and we had a few blazing rows. 'You are worse than useless as an editor' he stormed eventually. 'I've a good mind to call your office and have them replace you. This was a serious threat -- a bad word from Crawford could effectively ruin my reputation. He announced that Chloe and he were going away for a week to visit her mother, and suggested I use the time to take a break and sort myself out. Miserably, I said I would try.

That night I had a terrible argument with Emily. She accused me of ignoring her, was paranoid that I was cheating on her, and hung up in tears. I was a mess.

Picking up some papers at Crawford's house the next day, I heard Sophie come in. I was furious with her but the sight of her in her little skirt filled me with lust again, and when she smiled at me I was putty in her hands.

'I'm sorry about the other night David, it was naughty of me' she offered demurely. 'You see that man is my boyfriend, and I couldn't very well fool around with you in front of him. But I hope you enjoyed the little show I gave you?' I knew I was being manipulated but I didn't care. Right now Sophie mattered to me more than anything else. I let her continue.

'I want you David, believe me. But we can't do anything in Paris -- not with the maid, and all my friends here. But I have a plan. My parents are away for a whole week, and we can go away too. They have a house in the country, five hours drive. I'm going down there tonight. Hire a car tomorrow and come and meet me. Please come -- we'll have the place to ourselves. It's beautiful. We can do anything we want...'