The Wild, Wicked West
Stolen Brides and Modern Slavery
Foreword:
This is not a nice story. On the scale of reluctance to non-consent, this is way on the non-con side of things. But, this is imaginary. Fantasy born of a twisted imagination. In no way do I condone or support this kind of violence against women. In real life, kink should be explored with mutual consent, always.
Don't let the slow build or lack of explicit sexual content initially fool you. There will be a lot of penetrative sex--oral, vaginal, and anal--and it will be against the will of the female participant. There will be other terrible things that I haven't written yet so I can't warn you about specifically, but they may include other things done in a non-consensual capacity, like mental and physical conditioning, body modifications, fisting, use of machinery, restraints and bondage, psychosis, physical abuse and violence, and more. I know people don't read or trust tags, so this is your fair warning.
If you don't like that kind of thing and you read this anyway, I'm gonna go ahead and assume that has more to do with you than with me.
Part 1
Chapter 2 - Sexual Responsiveness Testing
Shelby's ordeal continues after a brief interlude.
~ Shelby ~
How long had he been gone? She'd stopped trying to keep track of the seconds passing. But with nothing to do, nothing to look at, nothing to hear but that infernal clock, and no way to amuse herself or move at all, Shelby had nothing but the sensations of her own body to pay attention to.
Her wrists were on fire from pulling against whatever was holding them, which had proved to be a wasted effort anyway. She was hungry. She had to poop. Different areas of her body itched like crazy and the knowledge that she couldn't scratch only made it worse. Her toes were freezing. Her jaw was sore from being pried open. She needed to blow her nose. Any sexual excitement had--thankfully--died down, but the drying lubricant still felt wet and cold.
So many small discomforts worked together and amplified into one giant mass of fatiguing despair.
How had she gotten here? She remembered coming off the train, meeting him, feeling like something was wrong... He'd known her name. He'd responded to the name James. He'd known she would be there. Whoever he was, he'd either done something to James, or they were working together.
Shelby didn't want to believe that--it made her feel like a fool. The silly little lonely 20-something who trusted the wrong internet stranger.
She'd listened to true crime podcasts with the kind of detached fascination of someone who assumed they'd never become a victim. She'd believed she was better than those women, that she was smarter, that nothing bad would ever happen to her.
Apparently not.
They'd spoken for weeks and she'd been so charmed by him. He was confident, but not cocky. He was patient and authoritative. In the pictures he'd sent, he'd been handsome and looked almost refined. She thought she knew him; she thought she'd found a kindred spirit. He'd listened to her explain her fantasies of being out of control, of being restrained, of belonging to someone... This wasn't what she'd had in mind.
Maybe James wasn't even real. Maybe this was a catfishing situation where this man lured in women with a made-up character. How many other women had fallen for this fake James, only to find themselves on the wrong end of a pair of stirrups, enduring a fucked up exam so she could be sold to a new "owner" who'd decide to impregnate her or pierce something she didn't want pierced or train her for fisting?
She had to get out of here. Wherever here was. Hopefully Hannah would be worried enough by now. She didn't have many others who would look--her father had never been in the picture, and her mother had fallen hard into booze when Shelby was a teenager. She had a few friends, of which Hannah was the closest, and other than some coworkers who might think idly "where's Shelby been?" that was really it.
God, she really had been the perfect target. She'd practically made it easy for him to steal her away.
Owner. He'd said it with such practiced ease, like it was a word he used to describe one person's relationship with another person often. She wasn't stupid--in spite of all the evidence to the contrary--and knew that modern sexual slavery was rampant, even in first world countries. She'd never thought...
Shelby allowed herself a few moments for a pity party. When she ran out of tears, she took deep, measured breaths to center herself. She was stronger than this. Whatever he did to her... she could survive it. She had to survive it. She had to escape. No other option.
The rules seemed relatively straightforward. If she did what he said, he'd be easier on her--he'd said as much. And even though she didn't want him to put his filthy hands on her, she had limited options and currently no control over any of it. Her pride was not more important than her life.
When she got out, he'd pay. In this life, in prison, or in Hell.
Anger felt better than sadness or fear, so she held onto it. The seconds, minutes, hours ticked by. Time became meaningless, its presence nothing more than a cruel torture. She thought maybe she fell asleep at one point, but had no way to really know other than a vague sense that she'd awakened. She tried to distract herself by humming every song she could think of.
The sound of the door opening stopped her in the middle of the soundtrack to Wicked. Her heart lurched in her chest and her emotions became a jumbled mess that she didn't care to untangle. Fear, relief, anxiety, even a touch of aroused anticipation. She tried to ignore them all.
"Right where I left you, I see," he chuckled to himself at his own joke. "Please, don't let me interrupt you."
