SNARE
by Mr. K
5.
The tall African scientist was on the
phone. He was reclined in a corner
of his lab. He was turning a cigarette over and over between his
fingers.
“There are three.”
“Three, old boy?”
“Three of them. We have the lab set up, we’re
doing the experiments, and just as I’d expected… ”
“Costumed women again?”
“I watched one of them watching us. She was slick, she was crafty, but
Sister Dragon spotted her. She brought another one along.”
“Did you get Gold?”
“No. This time we’ve got Snare, Cutlass, and Night
Star.”
“We’ll meet you over there. We have to see this.”
The cameras were running. Snare could hear the gentle whine of the video
camera, and the she could see the red light staring at her from across the
room. Mirrors were on the ceiling and the walls, so matter where she turned,
she could see a long line of cameras with their glowing Cyclopes eyes watching
her.
Each reflection reflected the last.
No matter where she turned she could see herself - reflection upon reflection,
of herself. She could see the wet gleam of her purple
skinstocking, the tanned crest of her cleavage.
Light reflected from the black, leather strap of the cock gag that pressed
to the back of her throat just like it did from the tightly-wound leather
straps that joined her wrists to her ankles.
Her captor had evidently pulled her booted ankles close to the round, firm
curve of her ass. She had pulled the drugged heroine’s wrists and pinned
them up against the woman’s ankles. That was where she tied them. Snare
moaned and grunted around the cock gag that had been forced into her mouth
as her body and was bent into a painful arch, her wrists tightly lashed to
her glossy, black boots.
She could see the plastic ring of the anal beads sprouting through the space
that had been torn in her
costume.
Her own rope still pulled her arms close together behind her. Bound tightly
around her elbows in fierce, overlapping coils, the heroine’s own tool
strained her shoulders and lashed the sinewy limbs
together.
The camera watched as she squirmed and struggled, large breasts thrust up,
thick, muscular thighs flexing. It watched as Sister Dragon, now in her heels
and body suit entered the room. She was strutting, moving like a runway model
in slow motion. Snare could feel the time moving by in drips as the woman
who captured her moved closer, cocking her head to one side and
smiling.
“I guess you’re used to those anal beads by now,” Dragon said.
Her voice was edgy and slightly mocking. Snare looked into the mirrors, at
the long line of reflected Sister
Dragons. The Asian woman was
toying with Snare’s captured fighting sticks.
“I never want my guests to get bored, so here. Let’s do this
slooooooowly.”
She dragged out that o to the speed at which she slowly penetrated Snare
with one of the heroine’s own fighting sticks. Snare’s eyelids
fluttered and she moaned a deep, husky moan as her wet, pink sex gave way
for the stick. Sister Dragon could see that her victim was trying to move
her hips about, but found the biting pressure of the ropes to be hindering
her. Snare huffed and moaned against the cock.
“Shhhhh. Relax and accept this,” she
soothed as she slowly rotated the stick and edged it into the blond woman’s
cunt.
“You have to admit that it feels pretty good,” she said.
Snare released a huff of anger and frustration.
“Look at how nice and wet you are. It’s actually running out of
you.”
Now the stick had no farther to go, and the Dragon woman started making tiny
circles in the gusher between Snare’s thighs. The grunting and whining
against the cock gag were a joy to hear.
“Listen, Snare, you didn’t see it, but I coated your stick here
with the fluid version of the toxin that I used on you. I’m going to
keep you drugged, and thought this would be a great way to do it. I just
wanted to let that nasty toxin sink into the tender tissues of your pussy,
and … there you go … there you go …”
She noticed the heroine in the slick purple outfit weakening again. Her head
nodded down. Snare would not actually
pass out, but she would remain a weakened spectator to her own captivity.
“Not so tough, are we now?”
She changed her rhythm, and started to pump the stick in Snare’s
cunt. It would come out glistening with juices
and giving the slapsuckslapsuckslapsuck as briny
vagina fluids started to climb up its length. They soaked the Dragon
woman’s hand and spurted from the captive heroine’s
snatch.
“You like that? Admit it; you like getting your pussy punished by your
Sister Dragon.”
Her hand was a blur now, and Snare would have howled if the cock gag was
not blocking her throat. All she could do was shudder and buckle as her orgasm
crashed into her.
Sister Dragon pulled out the beads.
She watched the heroine’s body, until the muscles were tensed, and the
panting was furious, then she pulled the cord and drew a string of beads
out of the throbbing asshole of her captured heroine. Her enflamed pussy
spoke to the rippling vibrations in her asshole, and her big tits shook as
her body reached a new level of orgasmic thunder.
“You know that the camera is getting all of this, right? You know that
anyone and everyone is going to see this, right?
I will put it on the internet. Do you understand?”
The woman called Snare was no longer screaming around her gag. She was drooling
and shaking, but she was no longer screaming. She was silent, and her eyes
were wild, angry, and wide behind her mask.
“You’ll never forget how that felt will you?”
Now she had Snare’s other fighting stick, also wet with the
toxin.
“I really don’t want to leave that pretty little asshole of yours
alone. I really don’t like the idea of you going
without.”
She pressed the end of the stick up to the pucker of the large-breasted
woman’s ass.
The small, muscular heroine, hogtied and bound with her own rope, drool and
angry grunts coming from her captive mouth, felt her body instinctively tense
as Sister Dragon slowly rotated the fighting stick into her asshole. It was
slick, and friction put up no opposition as the alien object entered
her.
In her skinstocking and her high heels Sister Dragon
stepped back and looked at her work. Her eyes met that of the bound
woman.
“Some of his scientist friends should be here soon. Let’s see
…” She pondered for a moment, like a woman thinking about the length
and breadth of a grocery list. “We have to finish punishing the three
of you, then we’ll make you part of our work. Your
superheroine bullshit life will finally have
meaning.”
She started to leave the woman who was panting in the hall of mirrors, but
she stopped in mid-stride.
“You have some time, now, to think about the error of your
ways.”
She looked at the endless images of the humiliated woman, gagged and bound,
sticks sprouting from her most intimate parts.
“Think about this.”
She left.
Jeanie’s mind was already taking her back, not to some moral error that
landed her in this situation, as the bitch had intended, but to the last
captor who claimed to be teaching her a moral lesson. She remembered standing
on an apartment rooftop, at a poolside, looking down the muzzle of
Preacher’s energy weapon. Her whole body tingled from the ray that had
surged through her nervous system. She was fast, but she knew that she
couldn’t move before he zapped her with that thing again.
“Put your hands up, child,” said Preacher in his creaky
Snare remembered her eyes falling on the alien weapon clutched in the right
hand of this eerie man in black. She remembered that he had shot her twice
with it already, both times bringing her down and weakening her almost to
the point of no recovery. Another blast might end her.
She did as told that day by the pool, showing her palms, and raising her
arms. His eyes rode up and down the curves of her body. She was in a slightly
different costume then; still purple and seemingly painted on, it had a gleaming,
metallic luster. It was sleeveless, and had a high collar and a racing back.
She waited as he examined her.
“This is how a whore looks. You are a whore, aren’t you?
”
Just like Sister Dragon and her cohorts, he said that he was the fighter
for right, and she had to be taught a moral lesson.
A sleek, brown-haired woman in designer clothes slid up beside him. She was
one of The Faithful; a “fallen woman” who he was trying to
“cleanse.” She held a ball gag.
“Gag yourself.”
The woman tossed the black, rubber ball gag to the masked woman in purple,
who caught it in midair. She remembered, while she lay in her bonds, her
fighting sticks shoved deep in her ass and her sex, at the mercy of Sister
Dragon, how her face burned with humiliation and anger as she gagged herself
that day by the pool. She used both hands, holding both ends of the straps,
and pulled it between her full, pink lips.
Snare secured her own ball gag, buckling the strap behind her own head. With
the ball holding her mouth open, the woman in purple returned to her original
posture, her hands up. Again, her captor took the moment to look at her muscular,
athletic legs, her small waist, her large breasts
with their up-turned, thick nipples jutting out in the skin-tight body stocking.
She was ball-gagged and her hands were raised in surrender.
“Whore….not so tough now.”
The Faithful were gathering around her.
“Lay down to be tied,” he told her. She looked at the energy weapon,
remembered its sting, and bent her knees. Bound up for Sister Dragon, impaled
and cock-gagged, she remembered how she lay down on her back, arms at her
sides, legs together.
“Cross your legs, whore.” She did as told,
crossing one glossy, high-heeled black boot over the other. Hands reached
in from all sides, lifting her and flipping her over. They worked with a
focus and with élan as they wrapped her ankles in a thick, white rope
that was reinforced with steel. Others did the same with her knees and thighs,
pulling the ropes tight around the tightly-pressed muscles.
Snare found herself surprised that Sister Dragon
hadn’t braided her hair. One of the Faithful at the poolside gave her
a carefully-done French braid, humming a children’s hymn as she did.
Snare took a deep, shuddering breath through her nose as her head was wrenched
back and her hair intertwined with a short length of rope and ran down her
back and wrapped around her narrow waist.
One of them secured her elbows and wrists behind her back.
They rolled her on to her side, with The Preacher still pointing his energy
weapon at her.
“Look at that oyster,” one of them said pinching at the meaty fold
of her camel toe in the purple second skin.
“Don’t let her sin distract you,” said
a another male one as he blindfolded her.
She felt them roll her over, lift her and set her down on the rocking and
swaying surface of an inflatable raft that had been bobbing in the water
at the rim of the pool. She could smell the chlorine and the cheap plastic
of the raft.
“Push her out into the center of the pool. The ropes will tighten, pulling
her deeper into that position. If she struggles or squirms, even a little,
she will roll in and drown in the pool.”
Blind, gagged, and bound, she felt herself float out to the middle of the
pool.
That was one.
The man called Insurrection seemed to feel he had the moral high ground also.
He ambushed her in the empty hallways of the city courthouse, his powerful
frame dropping on her from above. From the minute he got a rope around her
neck, he was going on and on about “doing what was right” and handling
these “women who have stepped out of line.”
He kicked her in the face when she was on her knees, then yanked back in
the opposite direction, pulling with the rope. His fists took up clumps of
her hair, he pulled her to her feet, and slammed
her to her back. Now she could see him and he her.
His costume was black and white, just like his outlook on
life.
“You are large-breasted and fit; you ought to be suckling the young
of our
society.”
That was the last thing she heard before her skull was slammed against the
marble floor, and she went out like a light. Her mind spiraled down a dark
hole as her athletic body relaxed against the cold stone of the hallway.
When she awoke, she was blindfolded and gagged, this time with a cloth cleave
gag. Her wrists were tied to her ankles, her body pulled up into a strict
bow, and she was in a suspension swing, her body hanging and swaying in a
well-crafted scheme of ropes. He would give her little shoves, making her
swing like a pendulum. They were in a dank, smelly cellar somewhere in the
city.
“Do you feel that, whore?”
He must have cut a slit in her costume, because she could feel thick fingertips
pushing into her cunt.
”Do you feel the hand of a righteous man?”
More of his hand entered her. He clutched her thigh to steady her as he
pushed.
“Whore.”
More fingers entered her, up to the knuckles.
He formed a fist in her
vagina.
Insurrection was like the Preacher who was like this Sister Dragon who was
like the coldly-focused African scientist who had raped her mouth. Each one
saw her as a villain, and a threat to the common and greater good. Each one
had a mission laid out for the good of mankind that Snare seemed set to
foil.
Sister Dragon hadn’t blinded her, but she had left her bound and humiliated,
tied with her own ropes, her sticks sprouting from her. She hadn’t left
her to drown, she had left her to wait for the next
round of humiliation.
“You will learn,
whore.”
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