Gotcha

“Gotcha!” Jen smiled to herself. Hours of careful research had finally paid off and now it was payback time.

Jen had worked long and hard to get where she was. After graduating with an honours law degree she had been at a loose end when she’d taken the temp job at Amalgamated Holdings. Wendy McCuskell, the CEO had spotted her one day and, impressed with her abilities, promoted her to personal assistant. For three years Jen had worked at making herself indispensable and her temp job had evolved to a permanent one of power and responsibility near the heart of the operation.

But Jen had plans, big plans, and wasn’t prepared to stay as a PA all her life. Through Wendy she’d seen exactly what wealth and influence could buy her and she wasn’t going to let anything or anyone get in her way to the top. Wendy was, in this sense, a good role model for her. She was maybe fifteen years older than Jen and had risen to the point where she was worth millions as CEO and major share holder of Amalgamated Holdings. Ruthless and determined she demolished any opposition and ruled the company with a will of iron. Jen’s view was that if Wendy could make it by the time she was in her forties, then so could she and, in her determination to find out how Wendy had risen from nothing, she spent hours pouring over the books, studying her methods.

It was whilst paging through the endless lines of figures in the company accounts that Jen discovered Wendy’s little secret. At first she thought it must be an error, that her sums must be wrong, but the deeper she looked the clearer it became. Wendy wasn’t just ruthless and determined, she was also a totally unscrupulous crook and, deep within the company’s books, there was clear evidence of a massive fraud. The more Jen studied,

the more she uncovered until it became apparent that Wendy had benefited to the tune of several million from contracts which would never stand investigation from the various regulatory bodies. Piece by piece, file by file, Jen built up a portfolio, a list of dates and amounts, a list which would put Wendy behind bars, or rather…

Once she had discovered just what poweful information she had uncovered it hadn’t taken Jen long to decide what to do with it. She could, of course, do the ‘right’ thing; she could pass all the files to the fraud squad which would lead to Wendy being arrested, the end of Amalgamated Holdings and the end of her job. But then, how would this benefit her? She’d lose her job, she was realistic enough to realise that whistle blowers were effectively unemployable, and she’d still be poor and massively in debt.  On the other hand she could use this as an opportunity to move on into the big time; she could go to Wendy and use this to demand her slice of the cake. If Wendy was ruthless and unscrupulous then she could match her. With something like this to hold over her she could ask for almost anything; cash certainly, and lots of it, but more than that, she wanted power, she wanted a place on the board; not immediately, that would arouse suspicions, but soon.

She looked up at the clock; it was well past eight-o-clock and everyone else would have left hours ago. Even a workaholic like Wendy would be long gone. Carefully she placed the file in her desk draw and locked it away. Her whole body tingled with excitement; she could almost taste the power, the power that would be hers so soon. Tomorrow would be the day, the day she changed her life forever. She got up, fetched her coat, and headed for the door; exhausted from the day’s work but tomorrow, tomorrow it would all be worth it, as from tomorrow she was going to be rich, really rich.

She got in the lift and headed for the underground car park. There in the corner, the last car in the place, was her battered Ford. That was going to be one of the first things to go; she’d always fancied a sports car, a convertible, something with a bit of zip, and, as of tomorrow she could stop dreaming and start buying. Anyway, her current model was so old as to be embarrassing, the remote locking didn’t work anymore and she had to open the doors using the key.

She had just got in and was reaching for the ignition when, out of nowhere, an arm grabbed from behind. She was pinned back in her seat and a pad of cloth reeking of ether was clamped across her mouth. Jen struggled; all the time she had spent in the company gym meant that she was superbly fit, but it was in vain; whoever was holding her was stronger, and had had the advantage of surprise. Desperately Jen tried not to breath, but she couldn’t fight it forever and, unable to hold back any longer, she was sucking air through the cloth. Her head swam, the voice inside her that said keep fighting was getting weaker and weaker, and, at last, she slipped into darkness.

……

Slowly, very slowly, Jen regained consciousness. It was a while before her eyes would focus, she had a splitting headache, her stomach was churning, her mouth tasted like the cat had slept in it, and she was uncomfortable, so uncomfortable; her whole body felt cold and stiff, a mass of aches and pains. She tried to move but her arms seemed to be locked behind her, her ankles were similarly restrained. Gradually, piece by piece, she came to and realised she was stark naked, hogtied and lying on the hard floor of some sort of cell. Wave after wave of panic threatened to engulf her, this was like something from a  horror novel and God knows what sort of psychopath was waiting for her.

There was the whirr of a small electric motor and Jen twisted her head round to see what had caused it. High up in the corner of the room was a CCTV camera and the red light on the front was blinking, Whoever had done this to her was watching, would have seen her twisting her head  around to look, and would know that she was awake. The camera panned back and forth and the lens turned as it zoomed in. Whoever was watching was obviously studying her carefully. Jen’s heart pounded, it wouldn’t be long now before she discovered who and why and, more importantly, what they were going to do with her.

The light on the cameral went out; there was a short pause and then the sounds of echoing foot steps. The door opened and Jen got a brief glance at a thick set body before a hood was thrust over her head. Without a word her ankles were unchained and she was pulled roughly to her feet. She was far to unsteady to support herself but the grip on her arm was unrelenting and she was half led, half dragged away. They hadn’t gone far when Jen was thrown against some sort of bench; the padded leather top hit her firmly in the stomach winding her and she vomited, filling the hood. A stiff collar was placed round her neck, pulled forward and then down. Jen had no option but to follow and she realised that the ‘bench’ was actually some sort of horse, a horse that she was now lying across, held in place by the collar with her feet off the ground and her butt uppermost.

“Please, please…” Jen began but was caught short as a ribbon of fire erupted across her buttocks. Jen never knew exactly what was being used, a cane or a riding crop maybe, but she’d never felt such pain before. For the first few strokes she screamed No! and Please! but nothing was going to slow or stop the torrent of blows and before long she was simply screaming as she bucked and twisted trying desperately to avoid the pain.

Almost as scary as the whipping was the total silence of her assailant. Since she had been taken from the cell not a word had been spoken, indeed there was a quiet efficiency about the way she was being handled that was deeply chilling. Jen would almost have preferred the hysterical ravings of a madman to the slow, purposeful way that the whip was being applied to her body.

At last it stopped; sobbing, broken and exhausted, Jen collapsed like a rag doll missing it stuffing. Her buttocks and the tops of her thighs were a ball of fire but at least the blows had stopped. She was vaguely aware of her assailant doing something behind her but she couldn’t see what and, as long as she wasn’t being whipped anymore, she didn’t particularly care. Then she felt her legs being pulled apart and something hard pushing against her anus. Brutally it was pressed against the puckered ring of her sphincter and pushed until the resistance was overcome and she was penetrated. Through the agony Jen was aware that the intrusion was artificially hard, it was a dildo that was penetrating her, not a penis. Again and again the dildo was pushed, each time going deeper inside her until it was buried to the hilt. Jen felt as if molten lead had been poured inside her, that her sphincter had been split as it was stretched to the limit and beyond. Even so she was sufficiently aware to realise that the body thrusting against her meant that the dildo was being worn as a strap-on implying that her violator was a woman, not a man.

Woman or not, the difference was immaterial; the perpetrator was going to have her way and nothing, least of all Jen’s renewed screams and pleading, was going to stop her. The steady rhythm built and built, and the depth of the thrusts increased. Jen was having problems breathing, each thrust pushed her stomach against the horse crushing her against it and, as she gasped for breath inside the hot and stinking hood, the material and lumps of vomit were sucked into her mouth, half choking her. But there was nothing she could do to fight it, she’d been beaten, broken by the whipping, and, even if she’d wanted to struggle, firm hands gripping her hips and the collar around her neck meant she was going nowhere. At last the thrusts reached their crescendo, and Jen felt the woman behind her tense as once, twice, three times, the dildo was buried as deep as it would go and, with an unfeminine grunt, the woman let go of her hips and leant forward on top of her. Jen lay there crushed beneath the woman’s bulk, as she got her breath back, until, at last, the woman withdrew and Jen was left, as limp as a used dishcloth, draped over the horse.

For a few minutes nothing seemed to happen. There were various noises in the background but nothing specific until…

“Yes, Madam, she’s awake.” The woman was  on the phone to someone, someone who she called ‘Madam’. Whoever her assailant was they were not the one in command. Who was she, who was this 'Madam' and what did she want with Jen?

“Yes, I think she’s ready for you.” The woman continued. “I’ll clean her up and bring her upstairs.”

Jen felt the tension on the chain holding her collar being released and she slid from the horse to the floor. The hood was removed and she was just about to look up when, splash, a bucket of cold water was emptied over her. She was pulled to her knees and her head pushed to the floor. With her hands still chained behind her back there was nothing she could do to protect herself as two more buckets followed the first. She was bemused to see that the water which ran down her thighs was running red; evidently the feeling that her sphincter had split had been true and she was bleeding from her anus.

Still dripping wet she was pulled to her feet and led away by the chain attached to her collar. Although she was no longer wearing the hood she was so beaten, so battered that she could hardly raise the energy to stand, let alone lift her head and could only follow the bullish androgynous figure before her. She was led up a short staircase, through a door and out into a well appointed hallway. The plush furnishings and soft carpet underfoot contrasted strongly with the bare walls and concrete floors of the cellar she had been held in. They went down a corridor and into a spacious room with dim lighting and vast panoramic windows which gave a perfect view out over the city. Wherever she was it was somewhere posh, a big house in the best part of town. She was led to the centre of the room, pushed to her knees and the collar was removed from around her neck. Jen realised it would be best to keep her head down so it was in her peripheral vision that she saw a figure, a slim female figure, get up out of an armchair to come and stand before her. Still keeping her head down all she could see were two feet encased in immaculate Prada high heeled shoes. Surely she recognised those shoes…

“Ah, my little Iago.” Wendy McCuskell purred. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? Did you really think I didn’t know what you were up to, snooping away, day after day? Did you think for one moment that I would be beaten by a tramp, a dirtbag, a nothing like you? Did you think you were going to blackmail me with this?”

Wendy tossed the file she was holding and it landed at Jen’s knees. With a sinking heart she realised it was the file she had locked away in her desk earlier that evening.

“Wendy, please…” Jen began.

“Silence!” Wendy snarled back. “You will speak only when spoken to and only in response to a direct question. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Jen replied.

“Yes, what?” Wendy’s voice was icy steel.

“Yes, err… Miss.” Jen tried.

“That’s better. I prefer ‘Mistress’ but we’ll work on that later. Now, you’ve left me with a bit of a problem; what am I going to do with you? Normally I’d just hand you over to Fran. She’s my head of security and you’ve already seen that she’s quite capable of dealing with a silly little tramp like you. I tend not to ask exactly what she does with her, err.., guests but I know something of her little peccadilloes and I guess she’d have lots of fun with you before your body was found, washed up by the incoming tide. You wouldn’t be the first little obstacle that just disappeared.  The violence in town is so bad nowadays, so many senseless killings, and who would miss a silly little secretary like you?

“However, what with the McAlistair deal coming to a head next week, and the west coast trip to plan, the last thing I need right now is to have to train up a new PA. You may be the lowest, most treacherous little worm I’ve ever met, but you might just get lucky; I might just let you live after all.

“So, here’s the deal. From now on you’re mine, you’re my pet, you’re my slave, I own your body and I own your soul; you do everything I ask, and you do it willingly. I will demand total obedience and, believe me, I’ll put it to the test in ways you couldn’t even dream of. Because, from now on, I’ll control your life, I tell you what to do and how to do it, all day and every day; you will do nothing without my express permission. You’ll have to move in here; I’ve got just the room for you in the cellar. Then, if you behave, if you can prove that you can do it, if I get one hundred percent obedience from you, then, maybe, I’ll let you live.

“But what’s to stop you running away? Here you will be suitably restrained but whilst we’re at work I can’t keep my eyes on you all the time; the first time my back is turned you’d be off, wouldn’t you? Well, there are two reasons you might want to think twice. Firstly Fran is not just hired muscle, she’s far, far more than that. She put her many computer skills to work and both your laptop and desktop are full of child pornography and, if I need to, they’ll be just the things to make sure that it’s you that goes to prison, not me, and, if you try to tell people that it wasn’t you that put it there, that it wasn’t you that downloaded the filth the police will find there, then our IT team will discover that someone using your user name and password has been accessing porn sites and we’ll have the server logs to prove it.

“Secondly, if you run, Fran will find you. That’s what she does. She was a bounty hunter before I recruited her and a pretty good one. There’s nowhere you could run that would be far enough, I couldn’t afford to have you out there, she’ll track you down to the ends of the earth and, when she finds you the love taps you’ve had so far will seem like nothing compared to what she’d make you suffer.

“So, it’s up to you. I can hand you back to Fran and we’ll see how long it takes before she gets bored with playing with you, you can spend a very long time in prison for child abuse and discover what gentle souls the other inmates are and how kindly they treat perverts, or you can move in with me and be my little pet. It’s your choice, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Jen replied shakily. The full impact of what Wendy had just said was only just beginning to sink in. Just a few hours ago she was convinced she was on the verge of success, on the verge of climbing to the top; now the options seemed to be death, imprisonment for child abuse, or serving Wendy as some sort of slave. None of these were particularly appealing but the thought of prison, or, far worse, being back in the hands of Fran, were too dreadful to contemplate. There was only one possible answer, Jen knew it and, as sure as eggs are eggs, Wendy knew it.

“Please, Mistress, let me be your pet.” The words were winched from Jen, naked, still dripping gently, her backside and anus still throbbing with pain, her dignity and pride shattered, there was no other option, no other answer.

“Pet? Not ‘pet’, not yet, maybe if your good. Now try again.”

“Please, Mistress, let me be your slave. Please don’t hurt me any more.”

“That’s better, Good, girl. I knew you’d see sense. As for the hurting bit, well, I can’t promise that. Now wait there.” Wendy left her and went over to talk to Fran. Jen sneaked a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. What with the hood and the rough treatment this was the first time she had the chance to really look at Fran and what she saw did nothing to reduce her fear. A thick set woman with the build and looks of a Russian shot putter, obviously strong, with short cropped hair and dressed in a dark trouser suit she was a formidable figure. She also hadn’t relaxed her vigilance and as her eyes darted around the room they locked momentarily on Jen’s. How much of what had happened in the cellar had been work, and how much pleasure, was not something Jen wished to find out and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

Their business concluded Fran left and Wendy came back into the room and lay back on a sofa, kicking off her shoes.

“Come here, no, stay on your knees, come and kneel next to me.” Wendy’s voice was soft, almost seductive. Jen shuffled across, grateful that the soft carpet was saving her knees from rug burn.

“Look, my pretty, I’ve got a collar, just for you.” Jen looked up. Wendy was holding out a collar made of five parallel silver chains held by two solid bars at each end. Although it was a fine piece of jewellery, and obviously very expensive, it was also well made and strong enough to do it’s job. It was pretty, very pretty, but still a fully functional collar; its form and function in stark contrast. Attached to one end was a matching silver padlock, about an inch in diameter, equally ornate but no doubt just as strong.

“Look, it’s got your name on it.” Wendy said.

Jen looked closer; the padlock was heavily engraved and set with jewels and, worked into the whorls and patterns, was the word ‘Piglet’.

“Yes, I thought ‘Piglet’ most appropriate because it describes what you are: greedy. You were set to be my right hand, I was grooming you for the top, but you got greedy, you thought you could do it without me. What are you?”

“Greedy, Mistress.”

“Yes, my little Piglet, you are. And greedy little piglets deserve to be punished, don’t they?”

“Please, Mistress.” Jen replied horrified at the thought of further beatings. “I can’t take any more. Mistress Fran, she…”

“Oh, I know what Fran did, your poor bruised little piggy bottom tells its own story. Don’t worry; I’m not going to smack you, well, not right now anyway, though I dare say it will need plenty of smacking before we’re done. No, your punishment is to serve me, knowing that if you hadn’t been greedy you could have been my partner instead of my slave. I had such high hopes of you and you had to go and let me down.” Wendy reached down and chucked Jen under the chin. “Come along now; let’s get this collar on you.”

Jen was surprised with the tenderness with which Wendy fastened the collar. Part of her disorientation was the way in which Wendy’s mood seemed to swing between vicious brutality and gentle concern. Once the padlock had clicked into place Wendy slipped her fingers beneath the collar, pulled Jen’s face up to hers and kissed her long and hard.

“God, you taste disgusting!” Wendy pushed Jen away. “There, you look so much better with your collar on; aren’t you grateful that your allowed to wear my collar, allowed to be my slave?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Jen thought it best to reply in the affirmative.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” Wendy laughed. “You hate my guts at the moment, this wouldn’t be any fun if you didn’t, but, one day, you’ll thank me; one day you’ll grovel at my feet and worship, and be grateful for being allowed to do so, do you know that?”

Never Jen thought to herself but, wisely, she kept her mouth shut.

“If you’re as grateful as you say you are” Wendy continued “you can demonstrate it by kissing my feet. Let’s see how good you are at that.”

As Jen shuffled down and bent over to kiss Wendy’s feet Wendy picked up a file from an occasional table and started reading. It was almost as if she were oblivious to Jen’s ministrations and, after some considerable time, Jen, feeling that she was being ignored, slackened off.

“Did I say you could stop?” Wendy lowered the file she was reading and glowered at Jen.

“No, Mistress.”

“Well, get on with it then, and try to be a little sensuous, you’re supposed to be gratefully worshiping, not pecking away like some sort of demented bird.”

As Jen settled back to work she realized that this was going to be harder than she had thought; she couldn’t just go through the motions, Wendy was far too astute for that; if she were to survive, literally survive, she would need to throw herself into this body and soul. And what had Wendy meant about some day she’d be grateful for being allowed to worship? Surely no one could want to do this; Her body was a mass of hurts and pains, her backside and anal tract in particular felt as if they would never recover, her arms ached from being locked behind her, she had lost her freedom and was being forced to perform degrading acts; how could anyone want this?

Eventually Wendy put down the file she was reading, stretched and pushed Jen away with her foot. She must have rung some sort of concealed bell because, within moments, a maid appeared.

“Ah, Juanita, piglet here will be staying in the special guest room until further notice. Will you take her down for me, please? We’ll want a six-o-clock start tomorrow.”

Juanita took Jen by the arm and led her away back down the steps into the cellar as if this were a normal, everyday occurrence in the McCuskell household. Who knows? Maybe it was. Whilst she wasn’t harsh or brutal her whole demeanor countered any thoughts Jen might have had about striking up a conversation. Juanita opened the door to a small, white painted room , led Jen inside, undid her wrist cuffs and, before Jen could react, left closing the door behind her.

Jen rubbed some feeling back into her aching shoulders and looked around her cell. There was a bed, a shower, basic toilet facilities and not much more. In particular there wasn’t a light switch. Jen sat on the bed, only to get up again. Her poor bruised backside wasn’t going to allow any comfortable sitting for a while. She went over to the toilet facilities. Above the sink was a mirror and her battered reflection stared back at her. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were red, and she looked awful. Around her neck  was the collar, sparkling in the bright light, but, pretty or not, it was surely the symbol of what she had become. Her spirits fell, how could she go on when all the options in her life were so awful.

Without warning the light went out and the room was plunged into darkness; the only glimmer was the dim red glow from the light on the inevitable CCTV camera, presumably working in infra red mode. Jen felt her way back to the bed and lay down carefully on her front. Sobbing gently she lay there in the darkness until, finally, sleep came.