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).
Once in the tub, she used her fingers to brush away the blood from her inner thighs, then from around the swollen lips of her pussy. They were still sensitive. She dragged her fingernails lightly across the delicate tissues then up across the light red-furred pubic mound, across the curve of her belly.
She reached up with her free hand, finding her nipples already erect. She took one between her thumb and index finger. It was slippery in the soapy water. She caught it between her thumb and fingernail, pinched it, feeling the pain rush like an electric shock down through her body, right through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing—the same muscles, she now realized, that had been gripping Bobby's cock when it was thrusting up inside her.
She pinched harder, then moved her hand to the other nipple, pinched that one as well. She realized suddenly that she was rubbing herself between her legs and that her pussy had flowered open in response.
She began to rub herself up and down, pinching her nipple as she did.
Darcy realized that that feeling was coming back again, that growing tension, only now she was in control of it.
Her breath came faster as she stroked herself. She lifted one leg up, bracing it against the side of the tub. As she did so, she could feel her pussy opening up wide.
She hesitated as she rubbed her hand against the delicate pale coral lips, now flushed a deeper red, but finally she slipped her index finger down, reaching in between them.
Deeper. Still deeper, moving in and out. She could feel that tension growing. But something wasn't quite right. Then she slipped her middle finger in as well, pushing them both in deep.
She had to bite her lip to keep from groaning out loud as the two thrusting fingers spread the still-delicate internal tissues. The sharp tips of her fingernails were scraping against those bruised pussy walls. It was agony. It was ecstasy.
She thought about Bobby's cock—or anyone's cock, it really didn't matter—thrusting into her, filling her. Some man's rough hands, squeezing her breasts, pinching her nipples, picking her up as if she were a doll, spreading her legs, his cock filling her, hurting her...
She thrust into herself faster and faster, twisting and pulling on her nipple, arching her hips up against her fingers. The water began to splash out, down onto the bathroom floor, down around the clawed feet of the bathtub.
There was that tension, building, building toward something...
And then that "something" hit her like an electric shock, like waves of explosive pleasure coursing through her pussy. She could feel her internal muscles squeezing her fingers, milking them. She kept pushing in, drawing fresh waves of pleasure.
She shoved her fist into her mouth and bit down hard to keep from screaming as she arched her hips up out of the water, her whole body quivering in pleasure.
Finally, breathless, she slipped back under the water, letting her fingers slip from her aching pussy.
She spent a lot more time in the bath after that night. Sometimes she'd think about Bobby, who wrote her frequently from Basic Training somewhere down South. Sometimes she'd think about some movie star. Stewart Granger was a particular favorite, though she wasn't sure why—she didn't even like his movies. Maybe it was something about that distinguished older man look, though she wasn't really sure just how old he was.
Three months after Darcy lost her cherry, Bobby went overseas. A month later, she graduated high school.
Before summer was over, Bobby's parents had gotten the telegram from the war department, telling them that he'd died. It hadn't even been in combat. He'd been killed in some training exercise. Practice for the real thing.
They'd buried him overseas but his parents had a memorial service and she'd attended. The whole thing had seemed like something out of a dream. It was like she could see the whole thing from up above—everybody gathered in the church, the Reverend giving the eulogy, Bobby's family in the front row. There she was, dressed in black, her pale face, eyes wet with tears, surrounded by her family, near the front of the church.
Almost the whole town was there. Bobby had been the first, the first one they'd lost to the war. But there'd be others.
