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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
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type of literature, or you are under age,
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Stockholm Syndrome
by Joe Roberts (joe-roberts5666@virginmedia.com)
***
A burglar is confronted by a householder who is
expecting him. (MM, forced, d/s, bd)
***
'Well,' the policeman stated, 'you should upgrade your
security. Burglars often return to the same house when
they think that the insurance has paid out.'
'I'll do that.' It was a bit of a grumpy reply but
then I was severely pissed off.
I had just moved my stuff into my new house when I had
been burgled. Some expensive guitars and a lap top had
gone while I had been going to and fro between the old
address and the new one. The new address was much
closer to the city centre, so less commuting, and it
was much more space for the money.
The downside was that it lay on the border between a
newly gentrified section and an older, rougher area;
presumably the home of my opportunist burglars. It
wasn't the money – honest – it was the thought of
someone invading my space and helping themselves to my
gear, maybe someone who had been watching me. I raged
internally and thought of physically attacking the
next person who tried to burgle me. A perfectly normal
reaction I thought.
Another reason I had chosen this house was that it had
a good sized, dry cellar with electrics and plumbing.
I had arranged with a local builder to use special
soundproof plaster board to re-plaster the walls. The
cost was only £10 a sheet more than normal plaster
board. With the addition of a shower, toilet, small
stove, fridge, and a camp bed, someone could live in
it. I didn't intend to rent it out, but for occasional
use as a spare bedroom if necessary.
Its main purpose was as a music room where the
elevated sound levels would not bother the neighbours.
I bought two heavy, insulated doors, one as a back
door and the other for the cellar. As a test, I played
music through a 100 watt speaker. There was no sound
leakage to the upper floor. There, the matter might
have rested except for the trivial coincidence of a
female colleague lending me 'Fifty Shades of Grey' at
this point in my life.
I have to say that I enjoyed it although it was the
exchange of e-mails which I enjoyed most. It was
almost like reading Jane Austen for the 21st. century.
The BDSM sections which caused the notoriety didn't do
much for me except pique my curiosity about what an
authentic scene would involve. I found a relevant site
in about sixty seconds on the internet. The first clip
was of a couple who enjoyed spanking. There was
nothing to scare the horses there I thought.
The next one left me aghast. If this had come from a
police cell somewhere, Amnesty International would
have organised a demonstration outside the relevant
embassy in three days flat. A naked woman was led to
what looked like a picnic table with the legs
shortened. She kneeled down, on the seat as it were,
and stretched out her body and arms across the table.
Two women in stereotypical dominatrix clothes strapped
her ankles and wrists so that her body was pinioned
and her buttocks prominently displayed. One of the
dominatrix barked instructions in a language which was
not English. She then chose a cane from a bundle and
swished it as though to test it. Up to this point I
thought that I was watching an unthreatening role
play. The cane was poised and then swung horizontally.
The noise of it connecting with solid flesh was no
pretence.
The naked woman gasped and then counted what
presumably was 'one!' This had left a livid weal
across both buttocks. I started to feel a bit uneasy
about watching this. This was repeated until there
must have been ten blows. The camera moved in and the
screen filled with the buttocks which were bleeding
and bruised. Another woman was led to the device. I
clicked off and sped to the end of the video. There
were four naked women kneeling on a couch with their
backs to the camera which framed the buttocks. All had
presumably been flogged in the same way as the
buttocks and sometimes the tops of the thighs bore the
marks of the cane.
Despite my unease at what I had seen, that image began
to colonise my mind. To have someone bound and unable
to resist physical punishment, indeed, to be complicit
in it, seemed most attractive. Particularly when I
transferred the image to the person who had burgled
me, how good would that be? I began to visualise the
burglar in the same position, counting the strokes and
displaying the marks of abuse; how satisfying would
that be?
I began to develop a bit of split personality,
preparing for such a scheme while denying that it
could ever take place. Ikea provided a solid table and
a bed, both to be bolted to the floor. Internet sites
provided the restraints for the table, manacles,
canes, some new security items and a curious ex-
government hardware store from which I collected a
chain, sold by the metre. It looked as if it could
restrain a tank. The last thing was a baseball bat. I
wrapped an old sheet around it and taped it down.
The tricky bit was measuring where I wanted to bolt
the chain to the floor. It had to be long enough to
reach the shower, the toilet, the table and the bed
but nothing else. The new security cameras were
expensive, as I had bought ones which were designed to
be discreet, and which contained an infra-red option
and were connected to a computer hard drive which
could store months of data. Was I ready? Yes.
I left my replacement stuff out on display with the
curtains open. I would drive off in the evening and
leave a small light on to invite interest. When I came
back, I would review the security recordings. With a
fast-forward option, this only took a few moments per
evening. I was beginning to think that my burglar or
burglars had no interest in me when I caught something
on the fast forward. Someone was definitely interested
in the house and the entrance at the back. Game on!
The next time I left the house I just parked a block
away and quickly came back. I let myself in through
the back gate, then the back door and left them both
unlocked. Everything I needed was to hand. All I
needed to do was hide myself where I could see the
monitor for the cameras. Two hours later, he appeared.
He crept past the back once and then twice. He
hesitated, "Come on!" I thought.
"Yes!" He took the bait and opened the gate, and
insinuated himself up to the door. Luckily for him I
had oiled the hinges so it opened silently. This
appeared to give him some confidence as he came in,
found nothing of interest in the kitchen, so he
entered the room where I was waiting. He couldn't help
himself. He went straight to the laptop and lifted it
up. Even with my eyes shut and with dark glasses which
I had put on as he came in, the blinding light was
light watching the 1950's atomic bomb tests. The
security searchlight only came on for a few seconds
but it was designed to blind any thief who lifted an
item off the pressure pad which was connected to the
device. I bought it from America and the leaflet which
came with it suggested that it might be illegal in the
UK. I cared?
My burglar was swearing and staggering around holding
his eyes. "Now or never," I thought. I gripped the bat
and swung at his head. A soft thump was followed by a
precipitate collapse. The first pair of handcuffs went
around his wrists, the second around his feet. I
picked him up with my arms round his chest and dragged
him to the cellar. I went down first and he followed
with his feet banging down the stairs. When I had been
really mad, I envisaged doing this the other way
around with his head banging on the stairs.
I unshackled the cuffs on his feet, wrestled off his
shoes and socks, attached one foot to the free end of
the chain. Checked his breathing, dragged him onto the
table face down with his torso flat and his feet on
the ground; tied his lower legs with the restraints
bolted to the table leg, cut off all his clothing with
scissors, unshackled the handcuffs and tied his wrists
with the restraints bolted to the top of the table.
Checked his breathing once again, checked his arms for
tracks, put a mask over his eyes and a ball gag over
his head onto his neck.
Now naked and completely unable to move off the table
I picked up a bucket and put it between his knees and
inserted the tube from a rubber ball filled with soapy
water into his anus. I squeezed and his reflex pushed
the water out to the bucket. He urinated as well; a
good sign. I did this a few more times and threw the
contents of the bucket down the toilet. I used an
anti-bacterial wipe to clean everything, including his
buttocks.
There is now a line and I was about to cross it. I
picked up a latex glove, put it on and smeared
lubricant onto the fingers. I gently inserted one
finger. I carefully moved it around. The second finger
was also no trouble while the third took a little more
delicacy but soon moved in and out. I took off the
glove and looked at my burglar. He was young, his
buttocks were a bit too skinny I thought and he was
about to experience the worst night of his life. The
stretching seemed to have brought him back to life.
"Where am I?"
So far, so stereotypical.
"I hope you are going to listen carefully to me," was
my helpful reply. This produced a stream of invective,
as I had hoped. I put the ball gag in his mouth and
chose a cane. I swished it near his ears and then
rested it across his buttocks. That certainly got his
attention. The cane slipped through the air,
apparently with no help from me. A livid weal marked
its presence across the buttocks. It might have been
screams which leaked from the gag or not. I couldn't
tell. I didn't care.
"I had hoped that wouldn't be necessary," I purred in
what I hoped was a menacing fashion, "so, we need to
start again. Are you listening carefully?"
He nodded.
"Tonight, you have no choice about what happens next.
You will be flogged and you will be fucked." As I had
hoped, there was more noise from the victim. I
carefully placed the cane just lower than the first
stripe and again it seemed to whip across of its own
accord. When the mewling stopped, I changed my grip on
the cane and gave his cock a small tap which I
repeated on his testicles.
"Have you got the point yet? You do not make a sound
unless I allow it. You will address me as sir. I am
going to flog you and you're only sound will be to
count out each stroke. If you do not follow these
rules I will flog you until you do, and then we will
start on the number of strokes which I have decided
and you will count. Do you understand?"
Quite a lot of muffled something. Once more the cane
sang through the air. I repeated the rules; silence. I
pulled the ball gag down measured the stroke and let
go.
"One," he shouted.
"A bit quieter," I ordered.
"Two ... Three ... Four ... Five ... Six."
It had worked. I had bent him to my will and here he
was, my would-be burglar, counting out the strokes as
I decorated his buttocks with red stripes. I had been
concerned that I would be turned off by actually doing
this and sabotage the next act of revenge; needlessly
worried as it turned out. I put his gag back on,
unbuttoned my jeans and strode forward. His arse
wasn't quite at the most comfortable height but all-
in-all that was a small impediment. I pulled his
cheeks apart. I mentally scolded myself for not
shaving this while he was still unconscious. I put my
cock at his entrance. A moan from the gag ensued.
I squeezed his balls very lightly to remind him of the
silence rule. He was a quick learner as he shut up.
The head of my cock seemed to hesitate. Perhaps more
lubricant was necessary? This was soon remedied. Very
gradually I slipped past the tight ring and slid in
and out with ease. I must have been very turned on as
in no time I felt an orgasm building from the bottom
of my cock and exploding out, again and again.
A small part of my brain began to wonder why flogging
someone against his will excited me so much. This
clearly wasn't just a vengeful householder taking
revenge for feeling violated. This was much darker and
presumably had always existed, but suppressed. The
burglary was merely the opportunity to put into
practice something which had lain dormant. The revenge
was sweet but what did it say about me?
From the fridge I took out some cloths which I had
soaked and put in the freezer. I smothered the wounds
in an antiseptic first and placed the now iced cloths
on the wounds. I slipped off the gag and asked if he
wanted a drink. He nodded. I removed the eye mask,
released one arm and placed a bottle of water with a
straw on top in his hand. On the counter there was a
toaster and a micro-wave. I made toast and beans. For
the first time, the practicalities of keeping someone
prisoner began to dawn on me.
"I'm going to put this on the table and release your
other arm. You should be able to release your legs
yourself after that. You will be able to reach the
toilet, shower, washbasin and bed from here. When I
come again at night, I will give you a ten minute
warning when you must use the rubber ball and have a
shower. Failure to do this promptly will add to any
punishment which I choose to administer. If you have
any question, start with 'Sir'."
"Sir, when can I go?"
"Not for a long time"
He looked as if he was about to say something but my
expression changed his mind.
With that I put his clothes, shoes and various other
bits and pieces into a bin liner and set off up the
steps. My parting shot was
"Maybe you would have been better off if I'd called
the police."
I slammed the cellar door for effect. Once the bins
had been removed, there would be no record of my
unwilling guest in the house.
The End?
Maybe a part 2, depending on the reaction to this.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any
of the scenarios in this story should seriously
consider seeking professional help.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 79