The following short story is part of the MAN-BEAR SAGA, a series of adventures dealing with MARKHAN, the most ancient and powerful member of a race of mysterious, shape-shifting beings who live in the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest and the various young women who fall under his domination and control, both physically, emotionally, and sexually over the course of many decades.
This story, taking place in the early days of World War II, follows the adventures of DARCY WINSTON, a young girl whose burgeoning submissive and masochistic tendencies begin to awaken first under the harsh hand of her domineering Boss and later achieve their ultimate expression when she finds herself trapped in the Lost Valley of the Man-Bear.
Darcy came slowly back to consciousness. Everything was confusing at first. Where was she? She didn't know. There was something heavy, almost suffocating, pressing down on top of her. Her head ached. A sharp pain on one side as if she'd been hit by something. She tried opening her eyes. There was only darkness. What the heck was going on?
She tried to focus. Her body was lying in some odd position, her back pressed up against something hard, curved, with sharp ridges at intervals. Something jagged jammed up just below her shoulder blades. She couldn't make sense of it.
Why couldn't she remember?
She had a familiar taste in her mouth—the sour taste of semen. Well, that should tell her something. She'd only ever had the cock of one man in her mouth. That man was her boss, Mister Hendricks (funny, even as she thought about sucking his cock, she never thought of him as anything other than "Mister Hendricks"). In fact, she'd been quite a prude before she'd started working for him at the airplane plant...
Airplane.
Why did that make her think of something? Something important. Very important.
If only her head would stop pounding, if only she could shift this suffocating weight off of her, Darcy was sure all the pieces would come together. She tried moving and found that she could shift her legs slightly. She'd lost one of her shoes. She scraped her nylon clad heel along the floor, but still couldn't tell just what it was. Her arms were pinned by whatever it was that was stretched across the upper part of her body. She had the sense that it was something soft.
What was the last thing she remembered? Try to think. Something having to do with an airplane? Well, that could be almost anything. The company she worked, Hendricks Machine Parts, made airplane parts, propellers and bearings and things like that, for the fighters and bombers that were rolling off countless assembly lines and heading off to Europe and Japan.
So pretty much everything she did had to do with airplanes—take a memo, Miss Winston, write this up with two carbons, Miss Winston, read back the minutes of yesterday's meeting, Miss Winston, close the door and tug your skirt up above your waist, Miss Winston. Now unsnap your nylons and push them down your legs...
Well, maybe that last bit didn't have anything to do with airplanes.
Of course, Darcy hadn't thought of herself as one of "those" girls when she went to work at the plant. Not one of those girls that other girls talked about, those girls who slept around, who slept with their bosses, the kind of girls at high school who had a bad reputation. She wasn't what you'd call a movie star. She didn't have those Marilyn Monroe poster-girl measurements. She was tall and skinny with reddish blonde hair, small breasts, small hips, a dusting of freckles across a pretty face.
That's what everyone called her—pretty. Never sexy. Nobody knew how much she hated being called pretty.
She'd still be a virgin (well, she'd like to think so) if she hadn't slept with her boyfriend Bobby, and she'd only done that because he'd joined the army and was going off to basic training the next morning and he'd promised, or sort of promised, that they'd get married when he got back. So he'd really proposed which meant they'd been engaged.
Sort of.
Before that, she'd barely let him go to second base, but it all seemed so important to let him go all the way that night in the back of his Dad's old Ford. He'd been so eager he'd scratched her thighs tugging her panties down. It had been strange how thrilling she had found that feeling, the sudden sharp pain of his fingernails running down the outsides of her thighs, how that, more than anything that had come before, had stimulated that warm flow of moisture, had made the delicate lips of her pussy part at Bobby's awkward fumbling fingers.
In the breathless moments that followed, she found that she didn't care about all of the objections that she knew she was supposed to be making. She didn't care about his breathless proclamations of love and faithfulness and how he'd come back and marry her as he clambered up on top of her.
No. What she cared about, she realized with a sudden shock, was that terrifying sensation as she felt the broad head of his prick as it pushed inside her. She'd realize later that she hadn't been ready, hadn't been quite wet enough, but at the time all she knew was that it hurt as he pushed desperately into her in short sharp jabs, as she felt herself being spread, filling up.
It hurt terribly—and she didn't want it to stop. She didn't want the pain to stop.
And then there was a deeper, sharper pain. She felt something give, felt him going in deeper.
That was it, she thought, an almost passing thought—my cherry.
"Hurts..." she'd gasped.
"I'm sorry," Bobby had replied. For an instant, Darcy was afraid that he was going to pull out. She fumbled around, wrapping her legs around him.
"No," she'd replied urgently, "Keep going. Harder. Harder. Keep going. Keep—keep hurting me..."
She'd felt something weird, a strange sinking feeling in her stomach. She hadn't quite believed that she'd said it. It was as if someone else was speaking. But whoever had said it, Bobby had responded, thrusting into her harder and faster.
She was well-lubricated now, not only from her own juices but, she realized, from the blood from her broken hymen. But the friction of Bobby's cock as it rubbed against the raw edges of her torn cherry, mixed pain with pleasure in some way she'd never imagined.
She'd reached her hands down to her firm apple breasts, feeling for her erect nipples, pinching them in time to his thrusts.
Darcy had never masturbated, nothing beyond a bit of furtive rubbing against a pillow between her legs. She'd never brought herself to climax—and while the secretive whispers amongst her friends at high school that passed for sex education (since she and her Mom had never had "that talk") had taught her about boys and how they "came," her largely uninformed girl friends had simply never covered even the idea of a girl achieving climax.
But she knew that something was happening, a tension building like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Bobby's cock thrusting in and out, winding her tighter and tighter. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. Pleasure-pain. She was pinching her nipples harder and harder. Tighter and tighter. Yes, something was coming. Darcy felt as if she could hardly breathe. What was happening?
Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Almost there.
"Yes, yes, yes, do it, do it, come on, hurt me, hurt me, harder!" she heard herself gasping.
And then suddenly, Bobby wasn't thrusting any more. He'd pushed himself forward all the way. He was groaning and Darcy could feel a flood of wetness inside her. He let out a great gasp of pleasure.
Meanwhile, Darcy could feel that sensation, previously growing toward some indefinable explosion, dribbling away, like a sneeze that didn't happen.
She pushed up against him, trying to bring whatever it was back to life, but Bobby was already withdrawing, his prick softening. She felt him slip out of her.
He bent down, kissing her lightly on the lips.
"I love you," he'd whispered.
She hesitated, swallowed, hoping the darkness in the back seat of the car would hide the look of disappointment that she knew was on her face.
"I love you, too," she'd answered.
Later that night, alone in the bathroom, Darcy had slipped into the tub to wash away the traces of her defloration. Undressing in front of the bathroom mirror, she'd been shocked to see quite how much she'd bled. Her panties were a total loss and would have to be carefully discarded (she'd briefly considered blaming the blood on her period only to reject the idea—her Mother kept track of such things and would swoop down on the advent of a phantom period like a vulture).
