Archive-name: Bondage/the_bed.txt
Archive-author: 
Archive-title: Bed, The


     Wimples' first conscious thought was surprise at having one. Eyes 
still closed his mind took inventory; A throbbing headache and a sore 
neck served both to demonstrate that his experience had not been a 
dream and that he was painfully alive.  He tried to move and found 
that something restrained him; obviously it was not over. 

     Still he was relatively unhurt, they probably frighten, not 
actually kill their victims, he reasoned.  All he had to do was play 
their game, go along as though he believed and they would alternately 
tire of cat and mouse and let him go. Probably a little shop warn, 
certainly humiliated, but at least alive. 

     In spite of his predicament, his deductions afforded him more 
than a small measure of comfort.  Wimple could face anything so long 
as he had some feeling of control.  Even though he was clearly still 
their prisoner he now possessed his wits and perception of reality.  
Before their motives had been so utterly alien and unexpected as to 
leave him confused and helpless, like a navigator sailing into the 
void without celestial sights, horizon or even sea to fix on.  

     Now he knew them for what they where; sadistic rapists.  
Countless women have faced and prevailed over such encounters in the 
past, so could he.  All he had to do was think as they had; placate, 
plead even grovel, but above all wait for just the right moment to 
act. Like all rapists before them, humiliation was their only true 
passion, they would inevitably become careless in their driving need 
to gloat. With care and a little psychology he could vastly improve 
his chances.

     The fact that the traditional roles where reversed made no 
important difference. If anything, he had one advantage over his 
female counterparts; his physical superiority.  When the opportunity 
presents, he plotted, he would use that strength to do more than 
escape.

     With that thought resolutely in mind he opened his eyes only to 
be plunged again into confusion.  At first he thought that he must be 
hallucinating; he saw himself far below, fully clothed save shoes and 
socks, bound hand and foot, spread-eagled, to the four corners of a 
massive brass bed.  For a split second he felt the nausea of falling 
and then the realization of the absurd; the image was not below, but 
above.  A huge mirror spanned the four posts of the canopied monster.

     His orientation restored, he took in the details of his 
surroundings with the precision automatic to his nature. The bed, 
pillows under his head, curtains festooning the overhead mirror and 
even his bindings looked to be of black satin.  Everything about the 
bed and its appointments spoke of expense and permanence.  This 
did not bode well with his theory of ultimate release.  He had 
expected to find himself hog-tied among the rubbish in some back 
forgotten alley.  This was an exotic boudoir or at least what he 
could see of it, would they let him go, to tell of it?

     A footstep brought his attention abruptly from his reverie, the 
top of a woman's head appeared to the left of his twin in the 
mirror.  He looked to his left and saw no one, only powder blue 
walls atop oak wainscoting vaulted out of view.  Furious with 
himself for his stupidity in allowing preoccupation with the man 
above to disorient him, he flung his head to the right and met 
the gaze of the real world.

     Raven surveyed him coldly like a butcher seizing up a roast, his 
optimism collapsed into despair.  Once again his reflection 
mocked him, not in the mirrored surface overhead, but the evil 
glint of a very large kitchen knife held lightly in what would 
have otherwise been a graceful hand.  She was clad only in a 
brief black satin bra and panties, a perfect match for the bed. 
He had always considered black an erotic color, now he was 
reminded of its more traditional use.

     Wimple wondered if its brevity was designed to tease him or 
simply prevent her from soiling he clothes.  Her maniacal manner made 
him strongly suspect the later.  

     He struggled frantically against his bonds.  Her free hand 
flicked out with blurring speed and slapped his face hard in a mind 
numbing staccato burst.  His tear fogged vision revealed Her leer 
had deepened with obvious satisfaction.  

     She put her index finger to her lips, admonishing him not to 
speak, while at the same time brandishing her blade to and fro 
like a deadly metronome counting out a dirge.  She towered over 
him, well over six feet tall, her manner made her seem even 
taller. Raven was as hard as Jennifer was soft.

     Jennifers' body was a single liquid curve, ripe melon smooth 
breasts, petite flowing torso, Earth Mother hips, all gentle, 
delicate and inviting. Even in the last moments at the cobbled 
circle she had been comforting. 

     Ravens' body seemed chiseled in stone, hard, angular, muscled 
like a dancer, rigid yet poised as though an Olympic gymnast or jungle 
cat just before a leap.  She was without question the most bountiful 
woman Wimple had every seen, immensely female, but in no way feminine.  
Her bosoms thrust outwards like unassailable peaks, hips wide and 
defiant, everything about her was quietly dangerous, dark, unyielding 
and formidable.

     Raven climbed slowly onto the bed, brandishing her knife like a 
pirate boarding a captured ship.  She come to rest heavily astride 
Wimples' chest, pinning him tightly down. He felt like a insect on a 
card as she coolly examined him.  She looked down at him with 
dispassionate curiosity, not with an intercourse of minds, but the way 
one scrutinizes a thing.  

     Wimple averted his gaze nervously from hers in a vain attempt to 
scan the room for help he knew would not be there.  His attention was 
quickly recaptured by the feel of cold steel against his throat.  Her 
blade lay flat against his neck, edge directed under his chin.  

     Wimple took the only defense left to him; he went limp.  
Convinced his struggles would incite her the way a fleeing mouse 
excites a cat, he gaped transfixed into her unsympathetic eyes, 
daring not even to breath.

     She returned an almost human smile of approval, tapped his nose 
playfully with the flat of her blade and laid it aside with a 
reassuring gesture.  Almost forgotten, his breath returned in short 
restrained gasps as though afraid to annoy by his need for air.  If 
anything, her mood lightened further in response to his obvious 
deference. Wimple began once again to hope. 

     As if in answer, like a tide slowly rising up a beach, she slid 
forward until his face was buried deep in the cleft of her warm 
crotch.  In spite of his rising fear the fragrance of her 
womanhood brought back hungry pulsating need to his loins.  She 
swayed in perfect rhythm to his accelerating heart beat, closing 
her thighs a little tighter with the period of each arch.  The 
wetness of her perfume soaked through the satin of her panties 
filling every pore of his face, her smell became his world.  His 
breath gone, buzzing dizziness ringing in his ears his body began 
to writhe in desperate need for air.

     She slide down his chest, coming to rest astride his groin and 
allowed him to gasp noisily for air.  Her playful mood gone, 
replaced by her usual deadly leer, she waited patently for him to 
grasp what she was about to do.  

     Once again he felt the chill of her blade, this time against the 
soft of his belly. Edge upward, between skin and shirt, she drew it 
slowly toward his chin slicing through his clothing as though cleaning 
a fish.  The symbolisms of her gesture was crystal clear and 
profoundly threatening.  

     His shirt laid open, her blade embedded in his throat, 
restrained, hovering on the threshold of piercing his flesh, she 
paused just long enough for him to get the other point.  Satisfied 
that he understood, she averted its edge down his sleeve.  More 
quickly this time, severing the fabric of the left and then the right 
until finally his shirt lay open in ruins, like a freshly skinned 
pelt.  
     
    Again she paused, this time much longer, drinking in the smell of 
his fear as if a connoisseur sniffing a cork.  Her body and his 
quivered in unison; hers with evil passion, his in mounting terror.  
She turned her blade downward, clutched firmly with both hands and 
raised it high above his throat, as if preparing to plunge it with all 
her might.  

     Instead it drifted down like a Autumn leaf, an act in slow 
motion, until its tip touched his throat transverse to his body.  Eyes 
crossed and bulging he peered into the idiot countenance of his 
reflection in the knife.  Poised delicately she drew it broadside 
down his body, marking its passage in light pain and heavy 
anguish, mimicking where wounds might have been and yet may be 
with a descending line of gooseflesh.  

     Agonizing moments later the point met the feeble resistance of 
cloth.  She dismounted, knelt beside him and turned the razor keen 
edge under the fabric as before, cleaving the denim of his pants, it 
fell aside like a plow through sod.  All the while keeping delicate 
contact with his flesh beneath, scraping over the tip of his penis, 
down its shaft and over the scrotum.  Wimple would have screamed in 
horror but he dare not, her expression left no doubt.  

     Again her blade descended under cloth, first down one leg and then 
the other, leaving his pants, like the shirt before it, disemboweled 
in effigy.  His skivvies where the last intact garment, Wimples' 
barely functioning logic assumed they would go next.  But as always 
Raven did the unexpected, the woman was a craftsman, a student of 
theater, she instinctively understood drama.  He wasn't quite ready.

     Somehow he still had partial a erection, certainly not supported 
by passion, but rather forgotten in his anguish, like his breath 
earlier.  Raven turned her attention on the bulge under the white 
cotton. She unsheathed her teeth in an evil grin and lowered her mouth 
over his swollen member.  Chewing just short of pain, expertly up and 
down its rapidly expanding length until it seemed as though it would 
burst.

     Wimple couldn't believe his own response!  How could his body 
react to what his mind loathed?  As in the lamp lit court, he felt 
betrayed by his own body.  The degradation committed against him was 
nothing compared to the loathing he felt for himself.  

     Raven watched his reaction with intense interest, studying his 
slightest twitch of expression.  As though confirmed by some subtle 
response in him, she intensified her manipulations.  Wimple groaned 
loudly, NO!, NO!, NO!, he shouted in whimpering frustration. Exactly 
in concert with his cry, she plunged the knife under his shorts 
rending them down to the crotch, and laid its cruel edge threateningly 
against his impending eruption.

     Everything fell with his erection; mind, purpose, self esteem, 
will and even fear.  All gone, extracted by Ravens' promised surgery 
and his disgust for himself. Even the desire to breath seemed like too 
much bother.  He lay there, totally deflated, he felt nothing.

     Now dispassionate and merely efficient, Raven finished cutting 
away the remains of his shorts.  Wimple stared blankly into space, 
oblivious to her acts.  She could have slit his throat an inch at a 
time and he wouldn't have noticed or cared. She pulled the tattered 
fragments of his clothing from under him, as though making the morning 
bed.  His head lulled back and forth unattached to his 
consciousness.

     Finally she finished her housekeeping and returned her attention 
to Wimple, he wasn`t there.  His body still occupied the surface of 
the bed, but his mind had fled.  With a great show of boredom she 
remounted his chest.  No reaction from Wimple.  She slapped him hard 
in the face.  Wimple looked back with disinterest.  Raven beamed in 
autocratic triumph.

     From somewhere deep inside Wimple a gurgling growl found its way 
to the surface.  His eyes, once vacant, now blazed back at Raven in 
hateful defiance.  You sadistic bitch!, he raged.  If ever I get free 
I'll have your god forsaken heart for lunch!  He didn't care what she 
did to him, she had gone to far fore him to care.

     Instead of retaliating, she looked down on him with amusement, 
shrugged and stepped lightly to the floor.  She picked up her 
discarded weapon and advanced on his prostrate body.  Wimple was 
certain that she was about to kill him, but his furry was far to 
deep to do anything but glower.  He was helpless to act, but if she 
got close enough, his teeth would leave a lasting reminder of someone 
who was not her groveling slave.

     Ravens' knife went to his feet, not to his throat.  She cut 
through his bindings, left and right. Stepped casually to the head, 
stretched over him, her breasts in easy reach of his anger and freed 
his left hand, quickly followed by his right.  Task complete, she 
stepped backwards nimbly to the far side of the room, leaned 
insolently against the wall, arms crossed, knife protruding upward.

     Wimple didn't exactly leap to his feet, he had been bound to long 
for that.  His departure was more a resurrection than the vengeful 
charge he would have preferred.  Emotion more than restraint had left 
him wobbly on his feet.  

     He looked across the room, eyeing Ravens' knife warily, trying to 
figure his best option.  In reply she twirled it in the air and caught 
it by its tip.  Raising the weapon over her shoulder, she readied to 
throw.  Wimple eyed the room for shelter, finding none he balanced his 
posture to avoid the forthcoming missile.  He was dubious of his 
chances, all too familiar with her skill, he doubted she would miss.

     Raven never failed to surprise, she threw, embedding the blade 
deep in the floor exactly bisecting the distance between them.  Wimple 
had hardly expected sportsmanship but he wasn't fool enough to waste 
an opportunity, he charged.  Raven seemed to ignore him, her insolent 
stance didn't change a wit, she simply grew in his view as he closed 
the distance.  A fraction of a second before impact she vanished, to 
late to abort the charge.  Wimple collided hard against the 
wainscoting and fell to the deep pile wool carpet in a heap.

     Every joint and bone achieving, he looked bewilderingly around 
for the dematerialized woman.  Laughter mocked him from behind.  She 
stood where he had begun, leaning as before against a post at the foot 
of the bed. He had been foolish, the woman was younger, fit and 
faster.  He possessed the power, not the speed, to prevail he must use 
it wisely.  Wimple closed the distance between them, this time, more 
cautiously. 

     
                     ???? TO BE CONTINUED ????
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