Sweet Gwendoline Ch 13

This was the most frightening experience of my entire life.

I had been kidnapped by a man named Paul Darcy. He didn't feel the least bit threatened that I knew his name. He was so confident that I would never escape his clutches that he voluntarily told me who he was.

I found his confidence to be very disturbing. If he was so certain that there was no hope of escape or rescue, perhaps there really

was

no hope. Perhaps he had truly committed the perfect crime, and I would be forever his helpless victim.

I didn't want to believe that I'd be his prisoner forever, however his brash certainty was quite daunting. He has assured me that his hired goons left behind no clues to assist the police in locating me. And his basement was quite dismaying as well. There were no windows, and the only exit was though a very thick, solid door at the top of the stairs with very impressive locks.

Not that he allowed me to examine the locks on that door very well. I'd spent most of my time in his dungeon/basement with my wrists bound well above my head to some sort of bondage device that's bolted to the ceiling.

The lighting in the basement wasn't all that great, however I could see the leather straps buckled around my wrists. The leather straps were strong and were buckled around my wrists exceedingly tight. There was no hope of my breaking them or wriggling free.

Darcy liked to hear himself talk, and he was certain I could never escape, so he told me a lot about himself. He has a niece named Elizabeth, who belongs to the Sigma Iota Sigma sorority over at Fairhaven University. It was through her that he learned of my existence and first began to formulate the idea of making me his prisoner.

Paul Darcy is some sort of multi-millionaire, while Elizabeth Darcy is a girl of very modest means. Paul Darcy doesn't have any friends, and he doesn't like to share his money with family, however, he has something of a soft spot for his niece, and when she asks him for money for tuition or books or class projects, he usually gives it to her.

In one of his more generous moments, he bought her a computer, which apparently came with spyware installed. That spyware allowed Darcy to read all his niece's e-mails, review her online banking history, and violate her privacy in many other ways as well.

The bastard.

You see, I work as a stripper for Riverside Entertainment. Elizabeth's sorority has hired me on numerous occasions to perform for them and dance in the nude. Elizabeth had taken multiple photos of me and loaded them onto her computer and send them to friends, highly recommending that they hire me. Normally that sort of free advertising would be considered a good thing.

However, Paul Darcy saw my photos and developed some sort of unhealthy infatuation with me. Rather than hire me, he developed a fanatical desire to kidnap me and make me his naked prisoner.

At first, Darcy's thugs drugged me. I suppose that made me much easier to abduct. A girl can't scream or struggle when she's unconscious. However, when the drugs wore off, I was filled with a chilling sense of dread. Darcy was wealthy and well-dressed; however, he was also a base criminal. He seemed utterly sociopathic and felt no sense of guilt for what he had done. I was just a possession, and any hurt or trauma that he had caused me wouldn't bother him in the least.

"You will dance for me," Darcy insisted confidently, "You will dance for me every night! You will be my blonde dancing goddess! My niece could never appreciate your erotic charms the way that I do! From now on, you shall have an audience worthy of your sensual talents!"

The man was manic and overzealous. He gestured wildly with his arms and paced frantically around the room as he verbalized his plans for my future. I was so outraged and offended by his arrogance and sense of entitlement, that my rage overpowered my fear, and I emphatically refused to ever dance for him, or put my naked body on display for his loathsome eyes.

I suppose it was foolish of me to defy him so resoundingly, however he was such a vile, execrable man, just being in his presence made me feel ill. Blindly submitting to his puerile, selfish whims was more than I could stomach.

And because of my refusal, Darcy ordered his hired thugs to rip my clothes off, and to buckle my wrists tightly to the bondage device in the ceiling.

I have no idea how long I was bound like that. There was no clock down there, and no accurate way for me to measure time. All I knew was that I was naked, helpless and gripped with a dreadful fear that I would spend the rest of my life as that vile man's prisoner.

The shredded remnants of my clothes lay on the floor, and I stood there naked and bound for hours. Darcy had left me alone in the basement, apparently as some form of psychological torture. Being naked and bound with no one to talk to, and no idea how long I had been down there had a disturbing effect on a girl's mind.

Darcy didn't say a word about when he was coming back, or even

if

he was coming back. He just told me that I would regret defying him, went upstairs and closed the door. I heard him lock it, something that seemed redundant. The way my wrists were bound, I could never make it up to the top of the stairs. Why lock the door if I could never reach it?

Alone and isolated, I examined my situation. I was naked and barefoot, my wrists were tightly strapped to compel my arms well up above my head, and I was forced to stand. So, I stood and would continue to stand. There was nothing else I could do.

If I had been bound like this by Doctor Riemen or Ruth Taylor, I would have been panting with a delicious eroticism by now. Of course, all my sexual fantasies had involved cruel women, wicked step-sisters or a cruel step-mother. Paul Darcy was a crass, boorish man with a scraggly, ungroomed mustache and large, hulking thugs, paid to abduct and manhandle me. Being made helpless by Paul Darcy wasn't erotic at all. It was just frightening and dreadful.

It would have been better if I had been abducted by a female. Oh, I'd

still

be in serious trouble, and I'd still want to escape, but at least with a female, there might have been some erotic aspects to my captivity.

I struggled vigorously with all my strength against the leather straps holding my wrists, until I wore myself out. It was a valiant effort, but it accomplished nothing other than working up a fine sheen of sweat and hurting my wrists. When I finally gave up, I was panting and surrendered to the inescapable truth that I was never going to be able to free myself.

I settled down and panted, bound naked and barefoot, and waited to see what would happen next.

The muscles and tendons in my arms began to ache and protest from being raised forcibly hour after hour. The fear and helplessness in the depths of my chest grew, and I spent an agonizing amount of time shifting my weight from one foot and then to the other in increasing weariness and anxiety. My fear and my exhaustion seemed to grow dramatically with each hour that passed.

Darcy was doing this to break my spirit. It was a premeditated tactic to break me, I knew it was. Sadly, knowing what he was up to, didn't make his tactic any less effective. I stood there naked and with my arms up in the air, and I knew for certain that I would do just about anything if Darcy would only let me loose. My arms were tired, my legs were tired, I was thirsty, and I had to pee. Without Darcy's assistance, I was helpless to alleviate any of these woes. I was totally helpless and reliant on him, and he knew that. After a few hours of dwelling on this, I began to cry.

"My, my, my, are we wallowing in self-pity?"

Darcy came down the stairs, his expensive boots echoing loudly as he clomped down into the basement. I had been sobbing miserably to myself when he unlocked the door, and he smiled smugly. It was as if my sobbing and my misery were some sort of victory for him to savor.

"I'll dance for you," I cried out miserably out to the sadist who had made me his prisoner, "You've made your point. I'm your helpless prisoner. I'll dance for you, if that's what you want."

"Yes, you will," he said, still grinning that smug grin.

Ignoring me for the moment, Darcy marched over to a two-door wardrobe and opened it with an overly-dramatic flourish. The basement was dim and shadowy; however, I could still make out a variety of whips and riding crops in the dark interior of Darcy's wardrobe.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, suddenly gripped in a hit of nervous trembling, "I already said I would dance for you!"

"Yes, you did," Darcy said with an ugly sneer, "however, you were slow to submit to my will. You attempted to defy me. If you and I are going to have any relationship at all, you need a painful lesson in what it means to defy a Darcy!"

All the whips in Paul Darcy's wardrobe of punishment implements looked wicked and cruel, however, he spent a great deal of time selecting the one he would use to hurt me. I don't know why he bothered. Any of them would have left me in tears and left my bottom red and stinging.

The one he selected was only about twelve or thirteen inches long. That wouldn't make it any less painful than the longer whips, just easier to control. The longer whips required a certain degree of skill and training if you wanted to hit your target with any degree of accuracy.

I gave Darcy a pleading, frightened look that would have melted the heart of any normal man, however Paul Darcy wasn't normal. He was an unholy, heartless bastard with no heart to melt. He ignored the pleading look on my face and stood behind me with his cruel weapon and chose the area of my naked flesh that he wanted to hurt.

There was a horrible, scalding sting across my left buttock followed by a feminine wail of anguish. The stinging sensation was overwhelming, and I found myself writhing reflexively and thrashing against my bonds. I jerked my legs up, and my whole body shook in reaction to the horrible pain.

My reaction to the whip was impressive and genuine, however Paul Darcy seemed unimpressed. He swung his whip a second time and I felt a stinging scald on my left buttock again, this red-hot sting was slightly lower than the first. I screamed even louder this time and danced under the whip, as my body attempted to cope with the agonizing pain.

"Please, no more," I implored frantically, "I've learned my lesson!"

There was a self-satisfied snickering, and then Darcy replied, "Actually,

I

is I who decide when you've learned your less, and I don't think that you have just yet!"

Without warning, he swung his whip again, this time the sting was spread across both my left and right buttock, the intensity of the pain seemed far worse than the first two lashes. I think he started to hit me harder at that point.

If it had been Doctor Riemen, or Lyndsay or Ruth Taylor that delivering this whipping, there would have been a dark, delicious piquancy to the pain. I would have been feverish with lust and soaking wet between my legs by now, but there was absolutely nothing about Darcy's voice, attitude or physical appearance that inspired lust. He inspired nothing but fear, revulsion and outrage. I hated being his prisoner, and I detested being punished by him.

I recoiled and involuntarily struggled against my restraints as he whipped me, yanking both of my feet of the floor and screaming sounds of pathetic misery.

Darcy then delivered a forth slash that pained my right buttock, but mostly scalded my right thigh. I think he was aiming for my ass, however I was dancing and writhing in pain so much, I think hitting his intended target was becoming difficult.

I looked over my shoulder, and Darcy was readying his arm for a fifth blow, when we both heard a loud crash from upstairs.

Darcy's arm froze in mid-motion, and he exclaimed,

"What the devil is going on up there?"

There was a great deal of screaming, followed by gunshots. Then there was another loud crash, and then the screaming got even louder.

Darcy dropped his whip and hastily scrambled to the other side of the room. There was an old, wooden desk on that side of the room. He unlocked one of the desk drawers, and with shaking hands, he pulled out a handgun.

As if on cue, there were more gunshots fired upstairs, followed by more screaming. It sounded like a war was being fought up there. It seemed to me that at least fourteen shots had been fired, possibly as many as twenty. Were people being killed up there? And if so, who was being killed? Darcy's hands were shaking, and he looked terror-stricken. It made sense that those agonized screams were being made by Darcy's hired goons. But, if he goons were the ones being attacked, who was attacking them?

There was one last resounding scream that sounded far more disturbing and harrowing than the others, and finally the room upstairs went silent.

"Keep very quiet," Darcy admonished me as he crept silently towards me, "Whoever was up there may have left already. However, if they're still in the house, I don't want to do anything that draws them down into the basement."

I was tempted to scream at the top of my lungs and do my damnedest to draw the intruder downstairs. I had no idea who was up there, however, I knew who was down in the basement with me, and I hated him with a passion. Maybe drawing Paul Darcy's enemy downstairs was the smartest thing that I could do at this point.

Or maybe, drawing them downstairs would be signing my own death warrant.

Either way, I had a decision to make.

I glared at Paul Darcy and whispered, "Get my wrists free from these straps, or I'm screaming as loud as I can."

Darcy's eyes widened in fear, and I could see sweat visibly forming on his brow. He was frightened, and at least part of that fear came from my threat. My guts churned with fear, but it wasn't a paralyzing fear. It was fear mixed with determination to hurt this man who had hurt me.

"I have seventeen rounds of ammo in this handgun," Darcy whispered to me, his tone admonishing, "Do you really want me to shoot you?"

I heard a muffled, creaking sound upstairs and knew the intruder (or intruders) hadn't left yet. I stared Darcy down and whispered back, "You fire that handgun now, and you give your position away. It'll be like an open invitation to come right down here."

Threatening Darcy was one of the most frightening things I had ever done with my life, however it was also one of the most thrilling. Fear and excitement roiled in my belly, and I felt immensely proud of myself for not backing down from his threat. I was naked, unarmed and bound, he held a weapon in his hand, and yet I felt like I was negotiating from a position of strength. I was filled with a potent sense of empowerment that I didn't even know was possible.

My heart pounded franticly in my chest and my breasts rose and fell as my breathing became labored. Time seemed to stand still, and I could feel a new coating of sweat start to form on my naked body. If Darcy didn't set me free soon I was going to scream. Screaming might get both of us killed, but I had decided, and my basic feeling was that it was better to die than to spend the next several years as Paul Darcy's prisoner.

Darcy glared at me and his upper lip twitched. I could see him struggling with indecision. His handgun was pointed directly at my face, but I tried not to squirm, or recoil from the sight of his handgun. I didn't want to get shot, but if he fired that thing now, he'd almost certainly die a few seconds later. It would be an extremely self-destructive act for him to shoot me at that moment in time.

Darcy's moment of indecision seemed to stretch out for hours. I glared at him. He stared at me in disbelief. Neither one of us spoke, and time seemed to move with glacial slowness. The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. My vocal cords tightened as I prepared to scream as loud as I was able. Of course, once I did that, Darcy would no longer have any reason to remain silent. He might shoot me out of pure spite.

In the end, it didn't matter what decision Darcy made, and it didn't matter if I followed through on my threat. The door at the top of the stairs sounded as if somebody smashed it open with a truck, and large pieces of the door and the doorframe came tumbling down the stairs.

Darcy immediately pointed the gun away from my head and towards the stairs. Darcy's hands shook as he pointed the gun at the person on the stairs, and then he gasped.

"Paul,"

her angry voice growled, "I am very pissed at you."

"Allison?"

Paul Darcy responded, sounding confused. He took a couple of steps back as his adversary came down the staircase.

She stalked towards Darcy, and I didn't recognize her at first. Her long, blonde hair was matted and soaked with blood. There were blood spatters on her face, and much of her body. She looked like she'd just been run over by a truck, buried in a shallow grave, and then dug back up.

But underneath all the blood, bruises and gunshot wounds, it was Lyndsay's mom. What the hell was she doing here? And what the hell had gone on upstairs? What part did she take in all those sounds of gunfire, loud crashes and panicked screaming?

Rather than ask any of this, I simply stared at her stupidly and asked, "You two know each other?"

"Paul and I travel in the same social circles," Mrs. Brie growled, "I've seen him at a few charity events."

"We also have VIP memberships at the same gym," Darcy added weakly, and taking another step away from the imposing looking Mrs. Brie.

"What are you doing here, Allison?" Darcy asked, his gun trained squarely at Mrs. Brie's chest.

"Dasha was on campus when you kidnapped her," Mrs. Brie said, her voice rough and gravelly as she pointed briefly at my bound nudity, "She recognized the van your thugs loaded her into. It was your van. It didn't take a genius to realize that your thugs would deliver her here."

"Are you serious?" he asked, "You break into my home, just to rescue some working-class female? A nameless, blonde stripper?"

"That nameless blonde stripper is Lyndsay's girlfriend," Mrs. Brie snapped, "That nameless blonde stripper is practically a part of my family, Paul! And I'm very protective of my family!"

Darcy's upper-lip twitched once again, but he stopped backing away from Mrs. Brie. Now that he knew who his assailant was, he seemed less afraid of her. I suspected that was foolish on his part, but I said nothing.

"I had no idea your daughter had any interest in this woman," Darcy said, "however, I went through a great deal of effort in obtaining her for myself. I've invested too much time and effort into her to just let her go. Lyndsay will just have to find some other girl to fall in love with."

Mrs. Brie looked pissed.

Her eyes dark, her teeth bared, her face a barely-contained mask of rage, Mrs. Brie held her blood-soaked hands at her sides, and in a very patient-sounding, very controlled voice said, "Paul, I am giving you one chance to end this, here and now, with no more bloodshed, no more aggression, no more pain, no more loss of life. Now isn't that worth giving up the custody of one naked girl?"

It was a reasonable offer. I thought that Darcy should take the deal she was offering, and I was reasonably certain that he would, but I held my breath as I waited for his response.

And then he shot her twice in the chest.

The gunshots resounded painfully loud in the basement, and for a few seconds I seemed to lose all hearing. Mrs. Brie was knocked to the floor, and there was a disturbing amount of blood. Seeing Lyndsay's mother dead, on the floor was an emotionally crushing blow that actually made me feel physically sick to my stomach. I screamed at Darcy in outrage, even though I couldn't hear my own voice at first. The ringing in my ears seemed to drown out all other noise.