It's Friday night and I'm in the kitchen fixing dinner with Will when the telephone rings.

"Hello."

I'm shocked to hear your voice on the other end. You tell me to meet you at the local Hilton tomorrow morning at 9:00. Will looks up wondering who I'm talking to because my voice is suddenly quiet and a little shaky. You tell me to just listen and be there ON TIME. Then you tell me what I am to wear. A mini skirt, a loose low cut blouse and high heels. That's all, no bra, panties, or stockings. Then you tell me that even though we have never met you will know me because of the outfit and my short blond hair.

The next morning I make up a story about going shopping and leave Will at home. When I get to the hotel I stand in the lobby looking around, uncertain. I feel a little strange because of the short skirt and revealing blouse. Where are you? I wonder. People were starting to notice me more and I am getting a little embarrassed. Then someone from the hotel asks me if my name is Bobi. When I say yes he gives me your room number and tells me I'm expected.

When I get to your room I knock and you say to come in. The room is dark except for a small light by the door.

"Glad you could make it Bobi. I see you are dressed properly. Now take your clothes off."

I still can't see you but I can feel the heat building up in me. Your voice is so commanding. I slowly remove my blouse and then my skirt.

"Turn around Bobi, mmm not bad. Okay walk toward me."

As I walk toward you I can only see your outline in the dimness.

"All right you slut crawl the rest of the way."

As I approach you I can see your cock is out of your trousers and hard.

"It's been waiting for you Bobi."

At my feet, you rise up on your knees, obediently opening your mouth to take my cock. Just then a blindfold is thrown over your eyes and tightened around your head. The dimness of the room is extinguished by pitch blackness. A ball gag is roughly inserted into your mouth and with a sharp jerk tightened in place. You can only manage a faint whimper of surprise and alarm. I laugh.

"My dear, did you really expect me to gratify you so easily?"

You shake your head.

"Now stand up and turn around."

You do so. You feel me grab your wrists and yank your hands behind your back, which are then expertly tied together with strong cord. I kick your feet together, and tie your ankles. Completely naked, you teeter, finding it difficult to maintain your balance, blindfolded, arms bound behind you and legs tied together. The slightest push from me and you'll topple over, helpless to break your fall.

You've never felt so helpless, so vulnerable. It occurs to you that you don't really know anything about me. My real name. Where I live. What I do for a living. If I have a criminal record. I could be anybody, capable of anything. You listen intently, desperate for some indication of my intentions. I'm silent. You can't even tell if I'm still behind you, or standing in front of you, of if I'm in the room at all. Am I just looking at you? Am I preparing some fiendish surprise? Am I in the kitchen getting out the knives? You begin to whimper and shake.

"Stop it." My voice is harsh, just inches from your ear.

"The moment you stepped through that door, you became mine. Now I own you. I decide what happens to you. You can't change that. You just have to accept it."

Thick burlap descends over your head. It scratches your face, your naked arms and back, pulls roughly across your nipples, erect with fear. I toss you to the floor. More burlap, pulled up over your feet and legs. You feel rope being tied tightly around you -- at the ankles, thighs, your waist, tight across your breasts, squeezing and pinching them painfully. You are fully encased in cocoon of burlap. The smell of the dry dusty fabric fills your nostrils. You hear my footsteps as I go to the door. The "click" of the door opening.

"Come in."

A pair of heavy footfalls joins mine and approach you. "He he, that's her?" a strange voice chortles. "Quiet!" you hear me whisper harshly to the stranger. You are picked up roughly, thrown over the stranger's shoulder. He smells of sweat and grease.

You're carried out the door. Bobbing up and down on the stranger's shoulder, you can just hear my footsteps leading the way. Now hurriedly down the corridor. Several turns. The sound of an elevator. The freight elevator? A "thud" as it opens; another as it closes. You count seven "dings." I'm taking you out through the basement you guess.

The elevator door opens to the sounds of an engine idling roughly just a few feet away. The double "clang" of doors thrown up. Suddenly you sail through the air and crash down on a hard metal floor. Slam, slam as the doors are shut. You're in some kind of van or truck. Two people get in, slam their doors and the van screeches off, bouncing you around inside. The sounds of heavy city traffic. People talking, laughing just inches away. No one knows you're inside. No one knows what's happening to you. No one can help you.

The sounds of traffic disappear, replaced by the whoosh and hum of an interstate. You're hungry and thirsty. Your bladder is bursting. You try to hold it in. The pain increases. Tears fill your eyes. Finally, against your will, your bladder lets go. Warm piss spurts out, soaking your burlap cocoon and your legs. Laughter comes from up front.

"I see, my dear," I say, "you are seriously lacking in self-discipline. We will have to do something about that."

We travel for hours. You lose track of time. Then the van turns off the highway. Fewer cars now. The van leaves the pavement. You bump and rattle around as the van traverses a dirt road. Finally, at long last, the van comes to a halt. The moment you feared (or longed for?) is about to arrive.

You hear the driver get out. The rusty squeak of an iron gate being pushed open. The driver climbs back in and the van continues. The van slows, turns sharply, backs up. You hear the driver and me climb out of the van. The cargo doors are thrown open. The stranger's strong arms grab you. He throws you over his shoulder as if you were nothing more than a wet kitten. A rusty door is pulled open. The sounds of boots on stone then thudding on wood. You're being carried down some stairs. Another door unlatched, opened. More twists and turns. The air around you is damp, musty, heavy. Another door. Several padlocks opened. Latches pushed aside. It's opened. You're carried inside.

"Throw her right there," I say.

You're tossed down, landing hard on a thin mattress on the floor.

"Where's my money?" the stranger whispers, loud enough for you to hear.

"Not in here." Shuffled steps leaving. "Here you go," you hear, apparently from the corridor just outside the door. "Count it if you want."

The rustle of paper.

"Thanks, doc," the stranger says, "You got another job, just call me."

"Oh, one more thing," you hear me say. A muffled BANG! then the THUD of a body hitting the ground.

The door is slammed shut. Latched and bolted. Grunts and curses accompany the sounds of a heavy object being dragged away. You struggle against your bounds -- uselessly. Your mouth is dry and swollen around the gag. It's getting harder to breath through the burlap. Cold and dampness seep into your limbs. Minutes pass. Half an hour.

Then the sound of the door being unbolted and opened. Hurried footsteps. Gentle hands fumble at the ropes binding you, in a hurry to untie the knots. The burlap is pulled off. Your feet untied. Then your hands. The gag is pulled from your mouth. The relief is staggering. You breath deeply. You're saved. You try to speak, but can only croak faintly. The blindfold is loosened. Ripped off. A harsh white light nearly blinds you again. You struggle to stand, but collapse back down on the mattress. You blink, shield your eyes with an outstretched hand against the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. You squint, looking for your savior.

"Welcome to Hell -- your new home," I say.

For the first time, you see my face. And my eyes. Cruel eyes. The eyes of someone who knows nothing but his own pleasure.

"I know you're grateful to me for it...aren't you?"

You look around. A stone cell. The stained and tattered mattress on the floor the only furnishing. A small window high up, with bars. A thick wooden door. The glaring bulb swaying on a cord hanging from the ceiling.

"Aren't you?" I demand, menace edging my voice.

"Yes," you manage to croak, "thank you...so much."

"Thank you...what?" The menace increases.

"Thank you...Master."

"I don't need to tell you that you are beyond any help. There is no one for miles and miles. Scream if you want. Only the dogs will hear you. Try to escape and those same dogs will rip you apart for their dinner before you've gone ten feet."

"Yes, Master."

"Good." I move to leave.

"I'm thirsty, Master."

"Thirsty? You're thirsty?"

With a swift kick I send a metal dog dish skidding across the stone floor toward you. I unzip my pants and pull out my cock. Steaming yellow piss spurts from me down into the dog dish. Piss splashes on you as the dish fills.

"There's your drink."

You don't move.

"Don't tell me you don't like it?" I say coldly.

You pull yourself over to the dish and lean down into it like a dog. The heavy scent of fresh urine fills your nose. Your lips touch the liquid. You force your tongue to lap it up. It's salty, but surprisingly sweet at the same time. The warm heavy liquid sooths your mouth and throat. Before you even realize it, you're eagerly lapping up my piss.

"I love him," you say to yourself, I love him and I will prove it to him."

You stand over me, watching but not saying anything. As I look up at you from all fours you reach down and gently tussle my blond hair. There is no smile though. You turn to leave and I whimper, "Master don't leave!

"QUIET! You are my slave and unless I tell you to talk you will be quiet."

Then you turn and leave closing the door. CLANK, CLICK.

I collapse in tears. What has happened? This is not what I expected. My body is bruised and exhausted. I'm in a strange place. Where am I? Did I hear a man get murdered? Will I be murdered? Perhaps it's all an act. Dogs? How can I escape if there are dogs? But even if I could get past them, I don't know where I am. I have no clothes, only a wet burlap bag.

As I think about my situation I realize I am shivering from the damp cold. I look around the room. It is barren except for the old mattress and the burlap bag. I try to get up but my legs are still weak. I should check the door but what if he's on the other side. It might make him angry. Then what would he do? I crawl over to the burlap and drag it back to the mattress. It is soaked with urine. It's all I have. I crawl onto the mattress and wrap the burlap, smelling of urine around me. As I lay there I can see the bowl I was drinking out of a short time back.

Then in disbelief I realize that now that I have calmed down I am actually feeling some desire for my Master. This can't be happening, what about Will and my real life. What if this is to become my real life. A feeling of complete confusion comes over me. A feeling of total subservience overwhelms me. I pull the burlap up higher around my neck to fight off the chill. I slowly fall into a deep sleep.

Then later, I don't know how much later, the door clanks open. I awaken, and after a moment of confusion, realize what has happened and where I am. At first I cower back from you. Then you look at me and snap your fingers and point to a spot near your leg. I put my head down and crawl to you. I am afraid to speak or touch you. What will happen now? Will it be the gentle hands that untied me or the stern master who brought me here?

I reach down to you. In my hand is a large dog collar. It is made of brown leather, stained and worn. Sharp metal studs ring the collar.

"Put it on."

You take it obediently and place it around your neck, but the collar is so wide that it digs into your jaw. You fumble with the twin buckles.

"Tighter," I command.

Your feeble tugs on the buckles annoy me. I encircle your neck with one hand and grab a strap with the other. A powerful yank cinches the bottom buckle on the collar, nearly choking you. I grasp the top buckle and yank again. You gasp for air and cry out as the collar stretches your neck. I shake my head, still not satisfied. Pushing the collar away with one hand and yanking hard on the straps with the other, I tighten the collar to a seemingly impossible tightness. Tears spring to your eyes and you struggle to breath.

"That's the last time I'll do that for you. You either learn to do it yourself, or get one of the other slaves to help you."

I snap a leash onto the collar and with a jerk bring you down on all fours.

"Heel!"

I lead you out of the cell and down the corridor. You scramble to keep up, scraping your knees and palms on the rough, cold stone floor. You can't breath, your eyes are watering, and your body aches all over. Finally, after what seems to be miles, I open a door and with a kick from my boot propel you into the room. Disoriented and crying, you hear me giving some orders.

"Lynch," I say, "set up on the wagon. I want her ready in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir."

I yank on your leash to get your attention.

"Lynch will get you ready. Don't say a word to him, or I'll have no more use for you."

I slam the heavy door shut behind me as I leave. Gleeful laughter rings in your ears. You struggle to clear your eyes.

"Get the wagon, boy!" a gruff, sneering voice commands.

You look up. A short muscular man in this fifties stands over you. He is an ugly man, hair wild and dirty, his few teeth broken and crooked. What you notice most of all are his eyes. Black, sightless eyes that never seem to blink. He's got your leash and gives it a hard jerk.

"Come this way, girly! And not a word, remember?" Lynch bursts into hideous laughter. As he drags you into the room you hear a crash of wood and metal.

"Boy!" the man roars. "What the fuck you doing!"

A boy, nearly as ugly as Lynch, but much younger, perhaps eighteen or so, stands over an odd wheeled contraption that's tipped on its side. He looks at the old man and gives him the finger, then flashes a smile of yellow crooked teeth at you.

"Where are you boy?" the old man shouts.

A strange barking grunt comes from the boy's mouth. He hurriedly rights the contraption and pushes it toward you. You get a good look at it as the boy jostles it into position next to you. It appears to be a thick wooden platform, perhaps four feet long and three feet wide raised off the ground a few inches by wheels -- like the wheels off an a child's red wagon. At one end is a wooden block with scoop cut out of it. It reminds you of those pictures you've seen of Japanese sleeping on stone pillows. At the other end of the platform, sticking up into the air a foot or so, are two metal rods with straps and buckles.

The boy, who smells of stale sweat, piss and shit, wrestles you up onto the platform. He's so clumsy it rolls away from him, bumping into the old man, who roars and curses at the boy. You've half fallen off onto the floor. As if you where nothing more than a lumpy sack of potatoes, the boy pulls on your arms and legs and head to get you back on board. He gets you onto your back and jams your head down on the block at the front. He buckles a strap across your forehead, and you are constrained to stare straight up into the air. The entire time, he's grunting and barking at the old man, who curses him as a "worthless piece of shit," a "whore's abortion" and worse.

Finished there, the boy scurries to the back of the wagon and jerks your legs apart, securing each one with a strap to a pole. He stands back to admire his work. You are flat on your back, naked, legs spread open, your cunt exposed, the leather collar still tight around your neck. He barks at the old man.

"Well, girly," Lynch says laughing, "I guess you're a pretty sight now -- I can't see ya, but that shithead's yap tells the tale!"

The boy dances around the wagon, barking like a rabid animal. As he scampers about, he unzips his fly and pulls out a long tube of flesh, which he waves obscenely at you. He jumps right on to the wagon, which rolls back and forth, and slaps every part of your body with his filthy cock, barking insanely.

The old man cackles. "He he, he's got it out again! Disgusting piece of meat, aint' he?"

The boy leans close to your face and beats your face with his dick. The soft nasty flesh pummels your eyes and nose and mouth. He tries to shove it into your mouth.

"Hey, boy! What you doing there?" The old man takes a swing in the boy's direction. The boy pays no attention.

"Get off that girly, or the doctor will send you upstairs, hear?"

The boy climbs off, whimpering.

"Get the rest of the stuff, shit-head and hurry! He'll be down soon!"

The boy drags a canvas bag over. Metal parts rattle around inside it. He undoes the string, and rummages around inside, grunting to himself.

"The cunt first," the old man commands. "Do the cunt's cunt first!" He laughs insanely at his own joke.

The boy approaches with frightening metallic object. It looks like a metal tube with screws and knobs. The boy climbs onto the wagon between your spread legs, and with a horrible wolfish grin spits a thick gob of spit onto the smaller end of the tube, He spits again, propelling a gob of slime onto your pussy. You scream as he rams the tube into you.

"Careful douche bag! Any blood and the Doc'll fuck your ass with a baseball bat!"

The boy eases up a bit, twisting the tube back and forth to drive it in. You nearly faint from the pain. But he's not done. As he twirls the screws, the tube opens wider and wider, like a monstrous speculum. Your cunt cracks open. A cry of pain and agony tears your throat.

Now the boy is leaning over your face. He grabs your chin and pulls your mouth open, then shoves another tube into you. Shorter but wider, with a funnel like opening, this tube fits down into your throat, forcing your mouth open. The boy straps it in place.

"Hurry, puke-face! He's coming!" the old man shouts.

The boy holds up a long metal rod. At one end, an T-shaped handle, again like something off a child's red wagon. Attached to the other end, however, is a large polished wooden bulb. The boy scrambles up and gets between your legs again. He spits on your asshole and prods your hole with the bulb end of the rod. The boy pushes, leans into his work. The bulb pops in, but your scream is muffled by the funnel in your mouth, and comes out as nothing more than a faint gurgle. The bulb is all the way in now, and your bruised and torn sphincter has closed around it. Just then, the door bursts open.

I step into the room, glaring angrily, a whip in my hand. The boy whimpers in fear and jumps off the wagon.

"Lynch!" I roar.

"Ready sir, the girly's ready sir, just like you asked, sir," the old man whines.

The boy wheels the wagon around and pushes you over to me, feet first. I walk around you, tugging at the straps, checking their tightness. I give a jerk on the rod, making sure it's secure inside you. Satisfied, I turn to the open doorway.

"Horse!"

A young woman shuffles into the room, eyes downcast. She's Asian, about eighteen, with long straight black hair. She is absolutely beautiful. Yet the sight of her chills you. Her only "clothing" is a leather harness cinched across her torso under her tits, "lifting and separating" them unnaturally, obscenely. Two straps of leather run down between her legs, pulling her thighs apart to expose her vagina. Her flesh is crisscrossed by raw red welts. Blood trickles from several cuts on her tits.

"Hitch her up!" I command.

As the Asian girl backs up to the wagon, you see that a horse tail has been inserted in her anus, and hangs down almost to the floor. The boy snaps a hook on the back of the girl's harness to the wagon's handle.

"There's a mess in cell fifty-nine," I say to Lynch. "Clean it up."

"Yes, sir, right away, sir."

I crack the whip onto the girl's back, raising another oozing welt.

"Pull!"

The pony girl steps forward, pulling the rod and jerking the bulb in your ass. The wagon lurches forward. Cracking the whip on the struggling girl's buttocks and the back of her thighs, I drive the wagon out of the room and down the corridor.

As the wagon bumps along the rough corridor, the pain, the cold and damp, your hunger and thirst, and the unnatural metal contraptions shoved into your mouth and cunt cause you to pass out. You drift in and out of consciousness as you are pulled through the bowels of the house.

Finally you awake as you are being pulled into a large room, brightly lit in the center by overhead spot lights, but the rest so dark you can't see the walls. The room is furnished with big wooden chairs and strange looking assortment of tables and structures. Then you realize you are on a large open stage. Around you on all sides, the audience peers from the darkness, restless. I crack the whip, and the pony girl pulls you and the wagon out into the middle of the stage. The audience bursts into applause.

To be continued...