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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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WARNING!
This text file contains sexually explicit
material. If you do not wish to read this
type of literature, or you are under age,
PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!!
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Archive name: truth.txt (MF, bd, threat-of-rape)
Authors name: Marcia R Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
Story title : Truth of the Matter, The
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Copyright 2003. As the author, I claim all rights under
international copyright laws. This work is not intended
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and text
intact. Revision to the text (such as the basis for
another story) is acceptable as long as the original
author is given credit and the resulting story is
distributed free of charge. Any commercial use of this
work is expressly forbidden without the written
permission of the author.
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The Truth of the Matter (MF, bd, threat-of-rape)
by Marcia R Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
***
What happens when Jaimee is kidnapped by a deranged
serial killer and has to make a life-saving decision...
about someone else.
***
This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray any
person living or dead, nor any known situation. This
story contains themes of kidnapping, bondage, spanking,
threat of rare. It is meant for adults only and is not to
be read by person's under the age of 18, or the legal age
in the county/state/country in which the reader resides.
If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this story
(a much better read), please contact me at
MarciaR26@aol.com
Note to the reader: This story was envisioned as a
serious attempt at a serious subject and you will forgive
me if it didn't live up to my high expectations. With a
little more talent in these fingertips maybe it would
have. Because of the subject matter, it probably should
not be read by anyone with a traumatic event in their
background.
THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER
by Marcia R. Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)
***
The man came down the basement steps, unlocked the door
at the bottom, then came through it and turned on the
lights. He looked purposefully around the room--first at
the girl on the bed--then at everything else. His gaze
missed nothing. Seemingly satisfied, he then crossed to
the double bed, checked each of the leather straps
binding the girl's wrists and ankles and the white kite-
strings leading from each to the four bedposts, then
lastly, removed the thermometer from her anus and held it
up to the light: 98.6 degrees.
"Good girl," the man said.
The young girl only whimpered.
Two months past her eighteenth birthday, Jaimee Pike had
been the man's captive now for seven days. He'd snatched
her right out of school practically, waiting for the bus
to drop her off from the Montclair School, where she
attended twelfth grade, then bringing her here to this
basement room. But he hadn't raped her. At lease not yet.
"You need to go pee?" the man asked.
Jaimee nodded energetically.
"Go then," the man said. "And leave the bathroom door
open."
Jaimee scrambled off the bed, breaking the thin white
strings and looking at the man fearfully as she did so.
Then she darted off for the bathroom opposite the stairs.
Only it wasn't a bathroom really... there was no bath, no
tub, not even a shower stall. All there was was the
commode on which she plunked herself down and a sink
installed against the cinder block wall. The walls
consisted of a studded-out layout of three walls and a
door frame and nothing more. The man's instructions not
to shut the door where therefore, a joke.
Sitting on the white plastic seat and releasing her
bladder, Jaimee felt the man's eyes.
Why hasn't he raped me? she wondered for perhaps the
thousandth time.Why hadn't he done anything to her in
seven days but tie her down spread-eagled to the bed
every day--face down mostly, but sometimes up--and that
was all. Well, not quite all. He had shaved her crotch
that very first night, then he had done her anus and
hadn't that been a treat. Chest down on the mattress, her
tail in the air, holding herself apart...
As a youngster Jaimee had imagined being shaven just like
that, had whispered about it with her friends, especially
Jenny Bryce whose older sister actually did it Jenny
said; but she had never experienced it herself. The drag
of the razor across her exposed anus had just scared her
to death.
No... being here scared her to death.
"You're hungry, I expect," the man said.
Jaimee nodded. Surprisingly, he had fed her pretty well.
Cheeseburgers and French fries from McDonald's every
night and sometimes a vanilla shake. The rest of the time
she dined on Healthy Choice frozen dinners, bologna and
cheese sandwiches, Cheerios with two-percent milk (just
like her mother for gosh sake), a variety of canned soups
and ice cream in the evenings.
"I got Burger King tonight. You like Burger King,
Jaimee?"
"Yes, sir," she said. "Very much." She had to call him
sir.
Wiping herself -- God, how her bladder ached! -- Jaimee
wondered how long long it had been today. Six hours,
maybe? Maybe eight? She had no sense of time in the
basement.
The man answered the question for her.
"It's six fifty-two, now. I left at eight oh-five this
morning. That's ten hours and forty-seven minutes."
Eleven... almost eleven goddamned hours! No wonder she
ached!
He'd shown her the layout the very first night, very
first thing. No windows anymore, just blocked over
rectangles where windows had been. No doors other than
the one at the bottom of the steps, and the one at the
top. The door at the top was a regular wooden door, with
a regular lock, and wouldn't keep out a toddler.
The one downstairs though... it could keep out an
elephant. Made of steel and set in a steel frame, the
thing looked more like a bank vault than a entrance. And
the stairway itself? Cinder-blocked all the way around
and right up to the ceiling. She had never seen anything
like it before in her life. He had built it, he'd said,
just for her. Or for girls like her.
"Why me?" she had blubbered when he told her that. "And
what are you going to do to me?"
This was just after she had removed her clothing with the
man watching her with terrifying eyes (she had remained
nude ever since) and just before her nightly bath. Her
nightly bath, complete with bubbles, shampoo and cream
rinse and even a razor to shave her legs.
"Why?" He had looked past her for a time, his forehead
crinkled in thought. Maybe he'd never been asked the
question before, Jaimee thought -- or as well as she
could think with her brain frozen slush and her bowels
bubbling lava. And then he had answered: "I'll show you
why."
Taking her by the hand, he had lead Jaimee up the
basement stairs and up another flight of stairs to his
bedroom on the second floor. Jaimee clung to his promise
not to rape her -- that night, at least -- like a treed
cat clinging upside down on a limb by its claws. But she
hadn't stopped crying.
"Sit down," the man had said.
Jaimee sat down at the computer.
"Turn it on," the man had said.
Jaimee turned it on. When it was warmed up and showing
her the desktop -- Window's XP, just like her brother's -
- he guided her through a series of folders.
"That one there," he said, pointing to the folder named:
"Jessica Ann."
Inside she found an even dozen icons.
"What are those?" she asked, knowing exactly what they
were.
The man had her change the view to list. Sequentially,
the files were named: 03.jpg, 04.jpg, 05.jpg, 06.jpg,
08.jpg, 10.jpg, 11.jpg, 12.jpg, 13.jpg, 14.jpg, 18.jpg,
19.jpg. She didn't ask what had happened to the ones in
between.
Double-clicking on the file named "03.jpg," Jaimee was
startled to see another young girl, blonde like herself,
with the same green eyes and length of hair and the even
same smile. She damned near could have been her double.
"I found these on the Internet a while back," the man
said. "And thought immediately of you."
Jaimee unknowingly looked up. "I know you?" she peeped.
"I know you. Now, click the Next button."
Jaimee dutifully clicked the right-arrow at the bottom of
the window and switched from the young girl lying stomach
down in the water (was that the bank of a stream?) on a
clear plastic float, to the same young girl kneeling in
the water with her forearms on the plastic float. Her
hands were now clasped loosely together and she looked
back over her shoulder at the camera with a selfless
grin.
I don't want to see any more, Jaimee thought. Please
don't show me any more. Then the man told her to proceed
to the next picture and Jaimee nearly freaked.
"Oh, my God," she whispered.
In the picture, the young girl was still on her hands and
knees in the water, smiling back at the camera, but now
her bottom jutted out so that everything was plainly
exposed. No, Jaimee thought, displayed, just like those
women in her brother's Hustler magazines.
The man took her through the remainder of the shots, each
worse than the one before and, by the time she finally
was allowed to close up the folder, Jaimee was completely
aghast.
"Now do you know why you're here?"
Jaimee didn't understand then, and she didn't understand
now.
"Come on," the man said as she stood up from the commode
and washed her hands. "Time for your picture."
Now this was truly weird. Every night at seven p.m., the
man took her upstairs to his bedroom, sat her down in a
chair before a white sheet strung between the walls of
his bedroom and handed her that day's edition of the
Washington Post. Then he photographed her with it, nude
but with her legs tightly clamped, the paper clutched
beside her grinning face. Either that or showing her
freshly spanked bottom if that's what she had. Then she
e-mailed it to her brother, Allen, which Jaimee just
loved, and then to four of her closest male classmates,
which Jaimee really loved.
"Why are you doing that?" she had wailed the first time.
'"To show them you're alive."
"To my brother?" she cried shrilly, "and to my friends?"
for which she was roundly spanked.
"Don't do that again," the man had warned her as she sat
bawling on the floor. "You understand?"
"Yes, sir," she hiccuped, tears pouring down her face. It
wasn't the spanking so much that hurt--she'd been spanked
before, bare-bottomed before, but not since she was
eleven years old and not by a stranger and certainly not
in a situation like this--but the damage to her sense of
pride. But she had not done it again and she had not been
spanked for it again. Not for that, anyway.
Now, preceding him up the stairs for her nightly
humiliation before the camera, she tried pleading with
him again: "Please don't send it out to any more boys,
okay... please? Please?"
"You know the agreement."
"Yes, but--"
The man stopped her on the steps and turned her around.
Jaimee shivered but kept her eyes level with his. "I'm
not being disrespectful," she said. "I'm just asking you
not to do it, that's all. If you want me to, I'll
apologize for it."
The man didn't spank her for it, but neither she get her
wish. Instead, she was lead upstairs and into the man's
bedroom, sat down in the chair and given her paper. She
sighed and then grinned for the camera. Then she loaded
the picture onto the computer and sent it away to this
evening's recipients. As always, she wondered how, if she
ever got out of this alive, she would ever live this
down.
"I'm an expert in Internet traffic," he had told her the
first night. He'd tried to explain about bootleg servers
in Kazakstan and Ethiopia and some country in the
Baltic's called Herzogovena. It sounded like gobbledygook
to her but evidently it worked--they could not trace the
pictures back to him... not even two miles from her
house. That was the the worst of it--two miles from her
house.
"Are you ever going to let me go?" she suddenly asked.
They were on their way down to the kitchen for dinner.
"When I'm done with you, yes."
"What are you doing with me?" she asked with eighteen
year old stupidity and innocence.
He stopped her on the stairs. "You honestly don't know?"
She shook her head no, then added: "No, sir."
"Well, you should know," he said and marched her back
upstairs again and spanked her the hardest he'd spanked
her yet.
*
It was three weeks later and Jaimee was resigning herself
to her lot. The man no longer tied her to the bed when he
left in the morning--unless she was very bad the evening
before, or his idea of being very bad--and she was
grateful for that. Instead, she spent her days doing
schoolwork assignments--yes, schoolwork assignments--
equivalent to, if not exactly the same, as what her
classmates were doing in school.
The man had set up a small card table against the wall
opposite her bed and piled neatly atop it were her
textbooks, ring-binders and spiral notebooks. He allowed
her the use of an Apple iBook computer with the Webster's
Electronic Dictionary, Roget's Thesaurus and the
Encyclopedia Britannica loaded on the hard drive. She
could even access the web in the evening--under strict
supervision--to further her research. Seven a.m. to three
p.m., with an hour out for lunch--she was becoming
addicted to All My Children on ABC--and three hours in
the evening spent on homework had her feeling almost at
home.
"You hungry?" the man asked.
"Yes, sir," she muttered. She was on the pot and it was
her third time this week going poop. She hated going
poop, especially wiping herself afterwards, at which the
man always grinned.
"Embarrasses you, doesn't it," he had said her very first
time.
What do you think, you asshole? she didn't reply. "Yes,
sir."
"Well, imagine how getting an enema would feel," he had
warned her.
She hoped--prayed--that the man was only joking. She had
kept her habits regular ever since.
"I brought pizza tonight," he said. "Pepperoni and bacon,
you're favorite."
How does he do that? she wondered. He knows my favorite
foods, my favorite movie stars, even my favorite boys at
school.
Yes, she added, wryly. All off which have now seen you
nude. And spanked, let's not forget being spanked.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed and removing her first
slice of pizza, Jaimee stopped momentarily to consider
her situation. God, she thought. I don't even realize it
anymore, but I'm sitting here nude. Just like she didn't
realize -- or much care -- when he watched her go pee. In
fact, pooping while he watched no longer freaked her out
the way it had before and it was almost like... no, it
was like... yes, she was growing used to it.
She didn't have to be told when to wash the dishes or
scrub the toilet anymore. She washed clothes on Tuesday
and Thursday nights, cleaned the kitchen on Sundays,
wrote out the grocery list for him on Wednesday afternoon
and vacuumed the entire house every other night. I'm
being domesticated, she thought disgustedly. I could be
his wife.
Halfway to her mouth, the slice of pizza stopped.
The man said, "What?"
Jaimee said, "Why are you keeping me here?"
"You asked me that before," the man said, looking
disappointed.
"Yes," Jaimee said, seeing his disappointment and not
caring about it. "And you didn't answer me. You spanked
me for not knowing."
"That's right," the man said. "Just like I'll spank you
again. Only worse."
Jaimee put the slice of pizza down. "I don't care," she
said softly. There was something -- wonder maybe? -- in
her voice. She looked at the man with her head inclined.
The man looked back, eyes beginning to narrow.
"I think maybe you know," he said slowly.
"I think I do too."
"Tell me," the man said.
Jaimee shook her head. "I want your promise first."
"My promise?"
"Yes," Jaimee said. "Your promise that it won't happen
again."
The man lowered his slice of pizza into the box and
slowly wiped his fingers on a Pizza Hut napkin. His eyes,
locked on hers and saying more than his words ever would,
never blinked.
But neither did Jaimee's.
"Promise me," Jaimee said again.
"I can't."
"You can."
The man shook his head.
"Why not?" she demanded.
"You know I can't."
Jaimee shuddered in frustration. "It's not fair," she
said, poking herself against the chest hard enough to
break a fingernail. "We're only human beings for God's
sake. We make mistakes. Everyone makes mistakes."
"It's been a month," he said. "You've saved lives. Be
happy with that."
"I can't."
The man sat very still. Jaimee sat very still. Then the
man said: "I like you, Jaimee. You're a caring girl and
a very smart girl. Don't fuck this up."
Jaimee breathed slowly in and out. Her eyes burned and so
did the back of her throat. She felt tremendously sick to
her stomach. She didn't want to "fuck up" but neither did
she want another young girl to die.
"What if I just stay?" she asked. "Of my own free will
for as long as you want me to."
The man's eyes narrowed again. "Do you know what you're
saying?"
"I do."
"This isn't a game, Jaimee. I'm not looking for a
housekeeper here."
"I know that."
The man blew air out between compressed lips. "Either
you're crazy... or you're really crazy."
For the first time in a month, a smile spread across
Jaimee's lips. It had nothing to do with pleasure. "Then
it's a deal?" she asked.
The man put out his hand and they shook on it.
Epilogue
"So," the man with the laptop computer and voice recorder
said. "The house was burning down and he let you go."
"Yes," Jaimee said. She was twenty-nine years old and
giving her first interview in seven years. It was her
first real interview, ever.
"And you weren't injured?"
Jaimee shook her head.
"You were very lucky, all that lead flying around."
Jaimee nodded again.
"About those photo's that were bandied about. Did they
really exist?"
Jaimee said yes, there were photos. The police and FBI
had confiscated most of them but some, she was certain,
were still about. She was not talking about the photos
she had sent out to her classmates. These were something
else.
"Look," she said, leaning forward and clasping her hands
between her knees. "That was a long time ago, okay? I'm
in a different state now, I'm married and I have two
wonderful kids. I know what he did and I know what he
didn't do after he took me. I could have left any time
after the first month and believe me--" she laughed
bitterly. "--there were a lot of times I wished I had. He
wasn't quite the monster the press made him out to be,
but he wasn't a nice guy, either."
She unconsciously fingered a scar running the length of
her jaw where the man had cut her with a knife. She bore
scars in numerous other places as well, and a puncture
wound or two, but everything vital still worked. And she
had left a few scars of her own.
"I won't apologize for what I did," she stated.
"I think the apologies are owed you, Ms. Poley, not the
other way around."
"Tell that to some of the families," she said, looking at
the floor. "The ones I couldn't save. The ones that
didn't have someone running interference for them. They
don't necessarily share your point of view... nor your
sympathetic tone."
"No," the man said. "I imagine they don't. I've talked to
most of them, you know?"
The ones you know about, she didn't say. "Interview's
over. I said an hour, and an hour's up."
The man nodded and packed up his things. He wasn't happy
about it, but he did.
"One last thing," he said as Jaimee started to rise.
"I told you--"
"This is for me," the man interrupted. "Off the record."
"What?"
He stared at Jaimee's breasts for a moment -- only Jaimee
realized it wasn't her breasts he was seeing -- and then
he said: "My niece was the forth girl David Favrill took.
Amy Morgan."
Jaimee sat back down again. Her legs were gone. Her
breath was gone.
"Two young girl's before her died and one more after--"
"I'm sorry," Jaimee muttered softly. "I didn't know."
"--and then he took you. What I wanted to ask was ... do
you ever regret not going to the police?"
Jaimee slowly shook her head. Tears filled her eyes.
Finally, she whispered: "I got what I could, okay? I got
the only thing he was willing to give. I also gave my
word." She breathed in deeply and exhaled. "And he kept
his to the very end. He never took another..." Her words
trailed off and she began to cry softly.
The man said: "No one can help my niece and the five
other girls David Favrill took. But I believe a lot of
nieces and daughters and grandchildren are out there
walking around today because of what you did. And for
that, we all should be grateful."
"Should we?" Jaimee asked, wiping her eyes. "I hope so."
Because the truth of the matter was... the truth was...
The truth was that only God knew.
THE END
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 23