Portions of the music were familiar to Erin. Snippets of classical pieces that the female with the light brown hair and beautiful green eyes recognized from films. Or the odd PBS documentary. Strings, brass, piano, kettle drums…but no lyrics. No voices. Erin fidgeted upon her bare feet and wondered if when the Controller came back perhaps it was she that was expected to supply the vocals.
Erin had witnessed her kidnapper punish other girls. Females not as tall, not as pretty, not as submissive as Erin herself. He referred to his play as ‘sex torture’…and Erin couldn’t help but notice that to get a helpless woman’s attention Belowstairs the proprietor primarily targeted breasts, nipples, bare feet and buttocks during punishment. It seemed to Erin that the Controller was sensibly preserving the more explicitly sexual bits of his prisoners’ bodies for separate fun n’ games. Just as Erin was proof positive he was sparing her own labium, clitoris and anus for his continued (and continuing) sexual pleasure moving forward.
An oft repeated passage of Bach wafted through the dank air of TheP.o.R.T. Erin - who was only twenty-seven years old and had never been raped until the day before yesterday - worked her long legs so as to combat the numbness creeping into her calves and hips. She’d been strung up naked by her wrists for well over an hour…and had naught but the music to keep her company within this dungeon. Waiting three levels below the street for her new Owner to arrive back at her cell. Because only then would Erin be allowed a sense of whether she was merely to be raped. Or if she was to be hurt horribly…and THEN raped.
Erin was grateful that her kidnapper seemed to like her own breasts particularly. More so than a few of the other girls languishing Belowstairs in pain. As she continued to stand uncomfortably with her arms pulled up agonizingly over her head Erin concocted schemes directed at getting her torturer to ‘notice’ her body. So that he would fuck her. And perhaps NOT punish her physically. Erin was truly grateful her breasts were THAT spectacular.
So the music played and the temperature in the cell dropped noticeably. Poor Erin actually became impatient for her rapist to return. From whatever sadistic game he was enjoying with some other unfortunate harem girl. A girl - just like Erin - who was certain NEVER to see the light of day again. In place of freedom Erin would be granted music. Only music. Erin Downing had only these to look forward to now that she’d fallen prey to the Controller’s snares: degradation, fear, humility and service. The dirge chords of sex slavery.
*************
“Yup. The fresh one. Erin Dowd…or something like that. Bitch must be five-eight! Yup. Been cranking in the Beethoven and a little Wagner. Marinating the slut. You know…Level Four. Simms Protocol. Yup. Ha! Lad, the whore thinks she’s actually making an impression on me with that body of hers! Imagine! Her…playing…me! It’s fucking comical. What a fool! Yes sir…the electricity. Just like that summer in Boston with those brunettes from the college. This cunt Erin WhateverHerNameIs possesses THEE most spectacularly sculpted nipples for those alligator clips you sent me. Right?! Eeee - lek - tricity…is Man’s best friend! Yes sir. Yes sir! I’ve got a whore strung up by her wrists Belowstairs that is gonna’ sing!”
