Snow fell down upon the lonely road. The girl walking on the shoulder clutched a thin windbreaker about her that did little to cut the bite of the chilly, damp night air. Blonde hair with a tinge of strawberry to it hung limp after days without a decent wash. Green eyes set in apple cheeked features gone slack with exhaustion stared fully at the gravel crunching beneath worn sneakers. Wet jeans hung off wide hips and an ass that swelled through the denim. Her breasts strained in a similar way against the checked flannel shirt worn beneath the windbreaker. Thumping against her back with each step was a tiny schoolbag containing her few possessions.
There had been no traffic on this road in the--how long had it been? It must have been more than an hour. There was nothing around except for warehouses and factories. There were lights far in the distance. A city? The freight train she had climbed onto days before had finally stopped at a siding. She shuddered. All those old time stories about hobos that she had vaguely heard of had not prepared her for the nightmare of huddling at one end of a tanker car on a train that had not stopped for days. Only handfuls of snow melted in her hands had kept her alive. What little snacks she had packed since fleeing had run out the first day.
She cupped her cheek. The handprint had faded. The memory of the pain had not. Neither had the words that woman had spewed at her. She wasn't any of those things. She hadn't even liked that asshole her mom had been dating. She definitely hadn't liked what the asshole had been doing when mom had not been around. The bastard had gone whining to mom when she had finally kicked him in the balls when he had tried to go too far. Of course, mom has believed him rather than her own daughter. Mom had locked her in her room as if she was just a kid rather than turning eighteen a month ago.
Fuck. It was so cold. Her feet and hands had gone numb a while ago. That was...that was really bad. The lights from the city up ahead never seemed to grow closer. She forced her to stay upright. If she fell down, she wouldn't get up anymore. The snow would cover her. They wouldn't find her until it was spring. The lights grew brighter. No, it was coming from behind. Her eyes widened as she heard the sound of an approaching engine. A car was coming. Frantic, she waved her hands to flag it down. She stumbled over to it when it came to a stop a few feet away.
She was saved.
++++
She could hear her captor moving around above her.
She didn't remember much since running to the car. There was a vague memory of her hair being seized. Twin metal prongs had pressed to her neck before a brutal shock had knocked her out. Then nothing except for moments of feverish consciousness in between long periods of darkness. The times when she had "awake" were filled with sensations of huge, rough hands in her helpless body: washing her, feeding her, stroking her. She hadn't been awake when whoever had imprisoned her had removed all hair on her body below the neck. She had only discovered it when she had finally come to an hour ago.
Tears dripped down her cheeks. Her pussy had been waxed bare. There was nothing to hide her between her legs. Not that she thought she would ever be allowed to hide anything ever again. She was completely naked in her prison. It was a heavy duty dog crate of black, rounded bars that formed a grid on all sides and the top. A stainless steel bowl was fastened at one end. It was full of water. A plastic hose running from it refilled it each time the level dipped below halfway. In another corner was a rubber bedpan with a tight fitting cover. She hadn't had to use that. Thank God. A thin foam pad covered the metal floor Otherwise, her cage was as bare as she was.
Well. She wasn't totally naked. Fingers trembled when they stroked the cold metal encircling her throat. She wore a dog's choke chain collar. One of the chain links had been opened then welded shut around the big steel ring at one end. It fixed the collar around her throat permanently with a snug fit. The free end dangled down to just above her collar bone. She wasn't naive. She was never into kinky stuff. But she heard enough stories to know this was a slave collar. The girl moaned. The cage, the welded on collar--everything spoke to a set up that wasn't a first time thing. How many girls had lain here? What had happened to them?
A heavy lock clicked at the top of the stairs running diagonally on the wall opposite the cage. She squirmed to the back of the cage while curling up into a ball. Terror gripped her as what sounded like a heavy door swung open. The basement she was in didn't look like a dungeon. It was a bare concrete box with tiny windows high up in the wall that were painted over. There were no whips or torture equipment on display. It was just stuff you'd find in any basement: hot water heater, washer and dryer, sink. The only thing out of place was a big leather armchair like you'd see in a library or mancave. But she could tell that bad things had happened down here.
They were going to happen to her.
The stairs creaked as the heavy footsteps she had heard above now descended them. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to kneel in the cage. That's what slavegirls did, right? They knelt. Kicking her captor in the balls was not an option. He wasn't her mom's asshole boyfriend. He was a fucking psycho who kidnapped vulnerable girls and caged them up. She had read somewhere that if you were taken hostage that you never argued with your abductor. It was very clear what sick fantasies this guy had. So she'd play into them. She laced her fingers behind her head with arms sticking out like chicken wings. It was how she had seen cops tell criminals on TV to act. Trembling, she spread her knees while arching out her back a little to present the two assets that she knew guys liked. The asshole had grabbed them often enough.
The man who she assumed had zapped her that night paused when he came to the bottom of the stairs. She risked flicking her eyes up for a second before resuming staring at the floor. He was old. Well, not old old. But there was more salt than pepper in his hair and the trimmed beard that covered his jaw. He might have looked a bit like Santa Klaus if she didn't know better. That face of his was more piratical at the moment. He had a tall, lanky body dressed only in a T-shirt and shorts. Every inch of him had whipcord muscle under the skin. The hiking boots he wore clunked on the concrete. In his hands was a tray. She moaned at the smells coming from it. Her stomach growled as the scent of bacon and eggs hit her brain.
