The Closet

THE CLOSET

A story of a young woman attracted to an older man who becomes her lover.  A man she’s curious about, maybe too curious.

Part One

Chapter One

Turning the third, forth key on his private ring, the lock finally unlocking, the door slowly swinging open with the slightest of a shove of her hand, she glances around before stepping in his bedroom’s walk-in closet, a closet she’s never seen unlocked, much less allowed to enter since she moved in with him.

Her hair wet in the puffy white towel, the matching full body towel wrapped around her freshly bathed figure, everything’s in neat order from the shadows of the doorway, obviously the kind of personal things that most normal men would collect. Flicking on the single bulb overhead light with its draw chain, curious of what else he must collect to be so obsessively private about this closet, the secrets he’s so adamant about keeping to himself, she finds herself drawn toward what appears to be a bulky footlocker, maybe even a steamer trunk taking up most of the back corner.

Another lock to bypass as she tugs on the trunk’s handles, rattling the keys on their ring, one finally making a full rotation and she smiles to herself in anticipation.  Momentarily thinking to herself just how lucky she is he forgot his keys today, flipping the lid open, again meticulously arranged belongings in two rows taking up half the space, the other side’s covered with a taut canvas flap.  Attracted to the numbered glossy faced binders in one neat stack next to another mound of likewise numbered cassettes, again reflexively glancing around, momentarily becoming virtually motionless, quite, she reaches down into the trunk for the top binder.

       Shutting the trunk lid for a flat surface, flipping the brilliantly white numbered one binder open she realizes it’s an album.  Color photos, several to a page, a closer look and she again reflexively freezes.  A double take, lifting her hands as she tilts her face closer to it as she holds the binder closer to the light, she realizes the photos are of a bound, naked, blindfolded woman.  Flipping a couple pages, a couple more, the photos appear to be a series of the woman’s images as she’s being tortured.

       Another glance around as she feels her heart thumping in her chest, again flipping the lid open as she kneels, lays the top binder on the floor, she reaches in for the next album.  Flipping the numbered two album open with its binder on the trunk’s edge, another series of photos, another blindfolded woman being photographed in a sadomasochistic scheme, she glances back inside the trunk, down toward what seems to be at least another half dozen remaining albums next to the similarly numbered cassettes.

       Standing, reaching in and lifting out the stack of albums, shutting the trunk and stacking them toward one side, she sits on the lid with another album in hand.  Opening it across her knees, already knowing the theme, she focuses on the initial page.  Yet another woman, obviously in the same predicament, it’s also obvious the photos are taken from the same location.

       Turning page after page, the further the more graphic, more sadistic, halfway through she realizes the photos are of more then a single series but with the same woman.  Bruises, welts, whip marks in one series, needles, clamps in another, breasts suspension, multiple impaling of orifices in yet another, she can’t help cupping her own breasts, press her fingers between her own thighs as she imagines what torment the victim must have suffered.

       Finally skimming toward the rear pages, the mask gone in the last set, she recognizes the face of the spread-eagled woman now being sexually assaulted with her legs bound above her head to a bed board’s posters.  It’s the face of one of his past girlfriends she’s met, her moist eyes with that reddened glow from a Polaroid photo, her rectum being stretched by a hooded man’s cock, his fingernails burrowing into, twisting, tugging her bruised breasts sadistically apart as he pounds at her.  Finally the backside of the last page, a single portrait  photo of the woman, this one out of place for the album, a formal studio type photo with a normal pose.

       Letting the binder shut and setting it beside her, glancing toward the other albums, she’s drawn to the next one.  Taking a deep breath, slowly opening it, starting at the front, again the series of brutal treatments’ fully photographed.  Suspensions, from breasts to inverted spread legs, piercings of breasts, not just a needle or two but sadistic patterns of a half dozen or so to each nipple, even labium and clit piercings, the layouts seem to escalate from a sadistic imagination leading up to the bed again, the tearful woman being savagely abused on the same bed.  As she flips to the back page, again the unmasked face on the rear, a single still of a normal pose the last image, again a previous girlfriend of his with a professional portrait.

       Letting the photo album shut in her hands, laying it on top of the first, she seems drawn to the next as she stares down at it.  Realizing the women seem to be more then just similar, actually just about like herself, young, good-looking and big busted, the stirring deep down inside escalating, even the noticeable aching of her breasts match that between her thighs as she seems to somehow be sharing their torment, even maybe responding to some of the less severe photos.  Finally picking up the third binding, starting at the front, the same backdrop, another also similar woman’s being abused.

       This one initially in black leather straps and silver chains, her mouth spread impossibly wide with dental implements, her first series of photos would seem to be almost erotic if it weren’t for the stark reality she’s not just posing.  A single bondage sleeve, her shoulders also impossibly arched back, it appears the contortions of her naked body’s forcing her to the brink of multiple dislocations.

Flipping through the pages to another series of photos, almost anticipating escalating pain, humiliation, seeing not just needles this set but skewers, long razor sharp prongs burrowing, crisscrossing through the deep titflesh close to her breastbone beneath the bamboo clamps contorting her swollen mounds, she again cups her own breast, reflexively squeezing, releasing, squeezing again and again her own thickening nipple between the tips of her filed fingernails as she stares at the photos of  skewers being thrust straight inward into the nubs of the woman’s nipples, three, four photos with the glistening prongs finally buried at least six inches deep in each bulging breast.  Once more the backside of the final page, the portrait of an out of place smiling face following a brutal sexual attack on what appears to be that same bed in the pages before it.

The third binder set aside, sensing the terrycloth body towel spreading wider, slipping off her still damp shoulders, she glances down between her bare breasts, toward her moist thighs.  Allowing the towel to crumple beneath her across the trunk lid, her breasts twitching, throbbing, the glistening mounds she’s so proud of so firm, globular, she notices the reddened dimples of the self inflicted nail marks on her thickening nubs.  Cupping, flattening a breast, then glancing over at the lowering stack of binders, picking up yet another, she automatically flips it open across her spreading lap.

A deep breath, another before mindlessly caressing her tingling breast as she nervously flips the book open, she commences with the front page.  Naked, bound spread-eagled, appearing to be the same location of a set, again a young, big breasted woman’s being put through similar but obviously escalating torments.  Breasts not only roped but seemingly deeply wired instead until turning a harsh purplish hue, serrated clover clamps digging into her puffy nipples, drool spews from around a bright red ball gag stretching her similarly red lips into a perfect oval.

Dropping her hand from her own responding breast, staring at the continuing series of photos, she almost silently moans to herself as she follows the photos of weights and more weights being added to the ever stretching clamps in ensuing photos, those breasts darkening, bulging, the nipples trickling, oozing crimson as they’re wickedly stretched.  Almost embarrassed in recalling having experimented herself, having felt clothespins on her own sensitive titflesh during some playful sex in the past, but hardly imagining her own breasts being abused this severely, the nipples clamped, tugged anything like in the photos in front of her, slowly nodding to herself in disbelief, she can’t help thinking how the woman’s obviously starting off this album so painfully.

A quick flip through the remaining pages as the punishment becomes too graphic, too humiliating to concentrate on, the back pages of her bound across that bed again, not only being anal penetrated but thick, dark phallus’ crammed in her mouth, her vagina, once more what seems to be a professional portrait of the woman consumes the back page.

The torments escalating to discerning, brutal, she glances down at the pair of remaining journals.  Adding to the stack of already viewed binders, picking up the next to last, she senses mixed emotions as she feels the moisture sticking to her fingers as she presses a hand between her thighs.  Nipples throbbing, glancing down, she can’t help noticing the nubs’ indentions from her nails having become discolored as they almost, somehow not so painfully ache from something more then just her own touch.  Again allowing the album to spread open across her thighs, the glossy cover sticking to her bare flesh, she focuses again on what surely will be another naked and bound woman.

A halting breath, staring ever closer at the very first photo, the completely naked and blindfolded woman’s bare breasts with a series of rubber bands snapping equally apart deep into each protruding mound forcing, molding them into tubular spears jaunting apart, she can’t help thinking she somehow recognizes a tattoo, a singular jet black tattoo on the woman’s left breast just above the nipple, that of a leopard.  Heart throbbing, stomach churning, a flick of a page, another flick and she feels herself on the verge of hyperventilating.

The only photos starting out with a masked woman not being bound, the next series more then makes up for it as she’s duct taped onto a makeshift wooden Saint Andrew’s cross.  Arms, legs severely folded with ankles to thighs, wrists to shoulders covered with defined tight rows of the silver tape, she’s spread out and mounted onto the flat front of the ‘X’ structure, her breasts remaining molded by the disappearing bands still burrowing into her titflesh with her face tilted forward between the bulging mounds.  Nipples tautly spread, veins showing beneath the nearly translucent flesh of her areolas and bulging nubs that’s now also bound with small bands, both labia lips appear to be severely stretched apart, pinned to her inner thighs, all freshly waxed or shaven around the dark, gapping tunnel of her sex.  A closer look, the swollen nub of her clits’ also been bound with a miniature type of rubber band of some sort.  And focusing in, with almost disbelief she realizes its also been pierced with a taut string stretched from it up to between her breasts, to her pierced tongue being drawn downward across her chin.

Silently, slowly shaking her head from side to side in disbelief, fingering her own aching clit as she allows her tongue to torpidly trace across her parted, moist lips, she hesitantly flips through a few more pages.  Almost numb to the brutality of the escalating photos, seeing the still bound breasts being swatted with a multi holed drilled paddle until a couple of the bands break and snap away from the dark purplish flesh, the nipples, clit even darker, she again knowingly glares at the familiar tattoo.

Drawing closer to the back page, to what she knows will certainly be the professional photo of someone she just can’t bring herself to believe she recognizes, flipping past the images of multiple welts crisscrossing those bruised mounds with specks of crimson oozing from around the embedded bands, the similar welts laced with the crimson of the lacerated folds of her labium still pinned to her stretched inner thighs, she again views what seem to be that all too familiar bed.  The now un-taped but fully spread-eagled victim mounted on it as the other two of her orifices are being stuffed to nearly tearing with phalluses even as her discolored, nearly swollen shut vagina’s being consumed by that thick shaft.  Flipping the page, she stares at the professional portrait, into the eyes of the person who introduced her to the man with these secrets, her older sister.

Unmindful to the passing time, dropping the binder to the floor, anxiously reaching down for the final album as her heartbeat pounds, throbs throughout her entire body, she almost rips the cover open across her lap.  Blank pages, obviously not yet used as she flips through, back and forth, front to back, back to front, she starts to toss it on top of the disheveled stack as it flops open to the rear cover.  Eyes widening, her stomach twisting in a knot, she stares at her own full size photo on back of the last page, the very portrait he had her pose for him just a few weeks before.  Cupping both breasts as she mumbles incoherently, defensively crossing her knees even as she hears the bedroom door opening in the background, she notices his shadow as he’s entering the bedroom, his image silhouetting across the poster bed, that bed in the photos.

End Part One…Could be continued   *** BUT ONLY IF REVIEWED!!!***